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A BEAUTIFUL  GIRL 
A HUNTED  MAN  i 

AND  A TERRIBLE  SECRET! 


Don't  miss  this 
2-million  dollar 
motion  picture!  A 
Samuel  Ooldwyn 
Production  starring 
Farley  Granger 
(shown  at  right  in  a 
lense  scene),  Dana 
Andrews,  Joan  Evans 
and  Robert  Keith 


uvhen  a man  murders  a 
priest,  his  soul  is  fared 

irith... 


Beg,  borrow  or  BUY  a copy  of  this  excite- 
ment-charged hook.  It’s  one  of  the  most 
exceptional  stories  you’ve  ever  had  the  luck 
to  come  across!  Look  for  its  bright  cover  in 
the  Popular  Library  Book  display  at  your 
newsstand  or  book  store! 

This  Great  Novel  Received  The  Catholic  Writers 
Guild  Of  America  1949  Golden  Book  Award  As 
The  Best  Work  Of  Fiction  By  A Catholic  Writer. 


A TRUE  I.  C.  S.  STORY 


fakea  front  on  ocfvof  letter 


WELCOME  TO  NATIONAL  AIRUNE5! 
yWIt  START  AS  CITX  TRAFFIC 
MANAGER  HERE  IN  TAMPA. 
GOOD  LUCK ! 


IT  WOULD  HAVE  TAKEN  ME 
VEARS  TO  LEARN  THE  HARP 
WAV  WHAT  I OET  EASILY 

FROM  I.C.S. 


YOUNG  MAN,  I'M  VERV  IM- 
PRESSED BVTHE  PROGRESS 
SHOWN  IN 


Back  home,  I was  hired  by  National . . . 

I'VE  OOU8LED  MV  EARNINGS 
SINCE  I BEGAN  MV  I.C.S. 
STUDIES.  AND  I'M  GOINS 
TO  KEEP  RIGHT  AT  IT. 


Studied  with  I.  C.  S.  in  my  spare  time ...  I.C.S.  sent  reports  to  my  employer . 

How  have  you  done  since  the  war  ? Start  now  to  get  the 
training  that  leads  to  advancement;  Mail  coupon  today  I 


I am  now  Washington  District  Manager. 


INTERNATIONAL  CORRESPONDENCE  SCHOOLS 


PARKE  WRIQHT 
k - . A 


\ APPROVED  ’ 


WmiMt  C*lt  0T  OMfSlIoa.  piMM  Mod  B 
BuolnoM  and 
Aeadomlo  CourMo 

□ Aecomliu  □ Advortislnf 

□ App.  Psychotefy  □ Bookkoitpinf 

□ Business  Adn^stritJoB 

□ Bus.  Correspondence  □ Bus.  Law 

□ Certified  Poiblie  AccounUat 

□ Commsrdal 

□ Commercial  Art 

□ Cost  AccoeQUai 

□ Faderal  Tai 

□ First  Year  Collafa' 

□ Foromanship 

□ GoodEngfirt  

□ Hi^er  MathemaUcs  □ llTusfritioo 

□ liidostilal  Supervision  ad 

□ Motor  JrafHc  □ PosUI  Civil  Service 

□ Kelaikng  □ ftelait  Bus.  Management 

U Salesmanship  □ Secretarial 

□ Sign  Lettarinc  □ Stenography 

□ ^nish  □ TcaMc  Managament 
Air  Condittentno  arid 
Plumbing  Couraoo 

□ Air  Conditioaing 

□ Heating  □ Plumbing 

□ Refrigeration  □ Stoam  Fittiai 


□ French 

□ Hick  SchMl 

□ Ulus 


BOX  3967-T,  SCRANTON  9,  PENNA^ 

I full  perticulors  about  the  cenna  BEFORE  wMeh  I tiavo  marked  X:  ^ 

Ch*mleal  Couroa^  Elaetrloal  Coumaa 

□ Chemical  Enginoarinfr  q Deetrical  Oraftiag 

□ Chemistry,  Analytical,  Q Electrical  Enginoertnc 

□ Chemistry.  Industrial  ^ ^ ^ □ Dectrie  Ught  and  PowM 

□ Chaimstry,  Mfg.  Iron  & SUeT  D UghtJng  Tachnlclaa 

a Petroleum  RafliUng  • □ PlasBca  □ Practical  Electrlciaa 

□ ^Ip  and  Paper  Maklof  - □ Power  House  Electrlo 

Civil  Engineering,  Arehitao*  □ Ship  Electridan  . 
tural  and  Mining  Ceuraee  * . ^ 

□ ArcMtacture  □ ArcWlectural  DraltiBg  Internal  Combuation 

O Bdldln,  EjUmalinl  _ C«ur.M  „ . , „ 

O Clvn  EgglnMrin,  □ Coll  MriH  3 ° Avtalto. 


□ Contracbng  and  Builiflag 

□ Highway  Enaneering 

□ Lumbar  Dealer 

□ Reading  Structural  Blueprintg 

□ Sanitary  Engineering 

8 Structural  Drafting 
Structural  Enginaoiing 
□ Surveying  and  Mapping 

Communieatlone  Ceureaa 
□ Electronics 

□ Prac.  FM  and  Televisioa  _ 

□ Prac.  Telephony  O Radio  Operating  □ Machine  Shop  Inspoctfoa 
□ Radio,  General  □ Radio  Servicing  a'Mochanicat  Drafting 
□ Teitraph  Engiooorlng  DiMachanical  Eogioeerffic 


□ Oiosol-EtacUic 

□ Diesel  Engines  □ Gas  Engines 
P Meehanloal  Ceureaa 

O Aaronaulical  Enginetr's.  Ir. 

□ Aircraft  Drafting  □ Flight  Engineer 

□ Forging  □ Foundry  Work 

□ Heal  Treatment  of  Metals 

□ Industrial  Encineering 

-□  Industrial  instrumentation 

□ Industrial  Metallurgy 

□ Machine  Shop 


□ Mold-Loft  Work 

□ PattornmaMng— Wood,  Metal 

□ Reading  Shop  Biueprints 

□ SheM-Metal  Drafting 

□ Sheet- Metal  Worker  □ Ship  Dreftlai 

□ Ship  FilUng  □ Tool  Dosigmag 

□ Toolmaking  □ Welding  Ea^aeedag 

□ Welding— Gat  and  Dectrfc 
Railroad  Couraao 

□ Air  Braka  □ Car  laapector 

□ Diesel  Locomotiva 

□ Locomotive  Engineer 

□ Locomotive  Rreman 

□ Locomotive  Machinist 

□ Railroad  Section  Foreman 
O Steam  and  Diesel  Loco.  Eng. 

Stationary  Cnginoaring 
Couraoa 

□ Boiiarmaking 

□ Combus.  Engrg.  □ Engine  Runnlnc 

□ Marine  Engineering 

□ Power  Plant  Engr.  □ Steam  Engineer 
Textile  Couraoe 

□ Cotton  Manufacturing  □ Loom  Fixing 

□ Rayon  Weaving  OTexUla  Designing 

□ Woolen  Manufacturing 


-Age. 


-Hoioe  Addreta- 


Praaent  PosHioa_ 
Length  of  Service 
toWgriit  Hit  li— 


Enrollment  under  G.I.  Bill  approved  for  World  War  II  Votorans.  Special  luitioa  ratas  to  membon  of  the  Aimed  Forcaa. 
Canadian  rttidonb  aaad  coupoo  to  lotaraattonal  Correspondanoe  Schools  Canadian,  Ltd.,  MootrooL  Canada. 


VOL.  XXXVII,  No.  1 A THRILLING  PUBLICATION  October,  1950 


A Complete  Short  Morel 


~ SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND 

By  JOHN  D.  MacDONALD 

It’s  a case  of  the  humanities  versus  alien 
efficiency  when  Strada’s  emissaries  enter 
the  Earth,  via  a trans-galactic  back  door! 

Two  Complete  Novelets 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR :Eric  Frank  Russell 

Edham  was  a trained  interplanetary  pioneer,  but  even  he  and  his  chosen  mate  were 
unable  to  make  their  world  a fit  place  to  live  in! 


11 

78 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE Sam  Mcrwin„Jr.  104 

Yoga  is  matched  against  the  Black  Mist  when  Margot  Holmes  and  her  Persian 
husband  face  the  fury  of  Oriental  fanaticism! 


Short  Stories 

— TRAFFIC Bolling  Branham  59 

The  Spaceship  Orion  runs  wild  above  the  Earth^s  surface 

THE  CHALLENGE Robert  Moore  WjUioms  69 

Just  like  man,  even  machines  can  sometimes  prove  fallible 

— THE  BONE  OF  CONTENTION.  . WHIiom  F.  Temple  122 

Jud  Parker  meets  the  missing  link  that  exists  between  mind  and  matter 

THE  SALAD  CITIZENS Wolt  Sheldon  133 

For  social  success  on  Venus,  you  had  to  be  a vegetarum,  or^ 

Features 

THE  READER  SPEAKS . .The’' Editor  6 

SCIENCE  FICTION  BOOK  REVIEW A Department  156 

DESTINATION  MOON A Movie  Review^  157 

THE  FRYING  PAN A Fanzine^Commentary  158 

Published  every  other  month  by  STANDARD  MAGAZINES,  INC.,  10  E»et  4«th'  Street,'  New  York  16 
N.  Y„  N.  L.  Pinea,  Prwident.  Copyright,  1960,  by  SUndard  Magaxincs,  Inc.  Subscription  (12  issue*),  $8.00 
single  wpies,  26c.  Foreign  and  Canadian  post^e  extra.  Reentered  aa  second-class  matter  October  8,  194$, 
at  the  Post  Office  at  New  York,  N.  Y.,  under  Act  of  March  8,  1879.  Names  of  all  characters  used  in  stories 
and  semi-fiction  articles  are  fictitious.  If  the  name  of  any  living  person  or  existing  institution  is  used,  it  is 
a coincidence. 

PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


JUST  LOOK 

The  Large  Benefit  This  Low 
Cost  Policy  Provides! 

This  remarkable  Family  Hospital  Policy 
covers  you  and  your  tamily  for  about 
g—for  rrrry  kind  of  accident-^ 


and  for  alt  the  common  and  rare  dis- 
eases, and  there  are  thousands  of  them. 
Serious  diseases  such  as  cancer,  tuber- 
culosis. heart  diseases,  diseases  involv- 
ing female  organs,  and  abdominal  oper- 
ations are  also  fully  covered  after  this 
pcrficy  is  in  force  six  months.  Suicide, 
msanity.  and  venereal  diseases  are  un- 
derstandably excluded. 

The  money  is  all  yours— for  any  pur- 
you  want  to  use  it  There  are  no 
hidden  meanings  or  big  words  in  the 
policy.  It  is  the  kind  of  fi^otection  that 
will  stand  by  you  when  emergency 
comes.  We  urge  you  and  every  family 
and  also  individuals  to  send  for  this 
policy  on  our  10  day  free  trial  offer— 
and  be  convince  that  no  other  howital 
plan  olT«^  you  so  much  for  your  $1.00 
a monthi 

TWO  SPECIAL  FEATURES 

MATERNITY 

feMBfits  At  SomH  Extra  Cost 

Women  w ho  w ill  tome  day 
have  babies  wUl  want  to 
take  ad  va  n tage  of  a special 
tow  cost  maternity  rider. 
Pays  $30.00  for  childbirth 
confinement  either  in  the 
hospital  or  at  home,  after 


POLIO 

tamfib  At  No  Extra  Oast 

In  lieu  of  other  regular 
benefits  policy  pays  these 
benefits  if  polio  strikes— 
For  Hospital  Bills. 


Fw  Doctor’s  Bills  while  in 
the  hospital,  up  to  SSOO.OO 
For  Orthoptic  Appli- 
ances. up  to C500.00 

TOTAL  OP  Sl.500.00 


3c  A DAY  1$  ALL  YOU  PAY 

for  this  outstanding  new  Famiiy  Protection 

Wonderful  news!  This  new  policy  covers  everyone  from  infancy  to  age  70!  When  sickness 
or  accident  sends  you  or  a member  of  your  family  to  the  hospital— this  policy  PAYS 
$100.00  PER  WEEK  for  a day,  a month,  even  a year ...  or  just  as  long  as  you  stay  in  the 
hosiN^.  What  a wonderful  fedlng  to  know  your  savings  are  fx-otected  and  you  won’t  have 
to  go  into  debt.  The  money  is  paid  DIRECT  TO  YOU  to  spend  as  you  wish.  This  remark- 
able new  Family  Hospital  Protection  costs  only  3c  a day  for  each  adult  18  to  59  years  of 
age,  and  for  age  60  to  70  only  4Hc  a day.  This  policy  even  covers  children  up  to  18  years 
of  age  with  cash  benefits  of  $50.(M  a we^  while  in  the  hospital— yet  the  cost  is  only  1 He 
a day  for  each  childl  Benefits  paid  while  amhned  to  any  recognized  hospit^.  except 
government  hospitals,  rest  homes  or  sanitariums.  Pick  your  own  doctor.  Naturally  the 
wtmderful  policy  is  is^ed  only  to  individuals  and  families  now  in  good  health;  otherwise 
the  cost  would  sky  high.  But  onoe  protected,  you  are  covered  for  about  ev^  sickness  or 
accident.  Persons  covert  may  return  as  often  as  necessary  to  the  hospital  within  the  year. 


This  Is  What  $100.00 a Week 
Can  Mean  to  You  When  In  the 
Hospital  for  Sickness  or  Accident 

Money  melts  away  fast  when  you  or  a 
membtf  of  your  family  has  to  go  to  the 
hospital.  You  have  to  pay  costly  hospital 
boaitl  and  room  . . . doctor's  bills  and 
maybe  the  surgeon's  bill  too  .. . necessary 
medicines,  operating  room  fees— a thou- 
sand and  one  tilings  you  don't  count  on. 
What  a Godsend  this  READY  CASH 
BENEFIT  WILL  BE  TO  YOU.  Here's 
cash  to  go  a long  way  toward  paying  heavy 
hospital  expenses— and  the  money  leftover 
can  help  pay  you  for  time  lost  from  your 
job  or  business.  Remember— all  ca^  l^e- 
fits  are  paid  directly  to  you. 


Examine  This  Policy  Without 
Cost  or  Obligation— Read  It— 
Talk  It  Over— Then  Decide 
10  DAYS  FREE  EXAMINATION 

You  are  invited  to  inspect  this  new  kind  of 
Family  Hospital  Plan.  We  will  send  the 


actual  policy  to  you  for  ten  days  af  no  cost 
or  obli^tion.  Talk  it  over  with  your  banker* 
doctor,  lawyer  or  spiritual  adviser.  Then 


make  up  your  mind.  This  policy  backed  by 
the  full  resources  of  the  nationally  known 
Service  Life  Insurance  CompanyofOm^a. 
Nebraska— organized  under  the  taws  of 
Nebraska  and  licensed  in  other  states. 
SEND  NO  MONEY— just  your  name  and 
address!  No  obligation,  of  courscl 

PAYS  CASH  BENEHTS  REGAK0l£$$  OF  ANY  OTHER  HOSPITAL  INSURANCE  YOU  NOW  RAVEt 


rnce  INSPECTION... 
rKEE  MAIL  COUPON 

The  Actual  Policy  Will  Cometo-Yoo 
at  Once  Without  Cost  or  Obliciatlon 


The  Service  life  Insurance  Conwany  . ^ 

iicsplUl  Department  K-17,  Omaha  2»  Nebraska 

PleaserushthenewFamilyllocpitalProtectioit  ■. 
Plan  Policy  to  me  on  10  days  Free  Infection.  { 
1 understand  that  1 am  under  no  obligatioo.  I 


,1 


SERVICE  LIFE  INSURANCE  COMPANY 

Hospital  Depaftmont  K«17^  Omaho  2,  Nebroska 


I lfam4,. 

I Addrm 
I City  or 


City  or  Toton. Slat*., 


PoGcyPaysforaDar.aWeek, 
aMontfi,aYear-/iista$ro/i|’as 
for  you  to  be  hospitalized! 


100^  A WEEK  in  CASH 

PAID  DIRECT  TO  YOU 


A DEPARTMENT  FOR  SCIENCE  FICTION  FANS 


After  taking  up  topics  of  such  im- 
mediate interest  and  concern  as  the 
effect  of  the  H-bomb  on  human  security 
and  the  so-called  flying  saucers  in  our  last 
two  issues,  we  are  now  going  to  step  up  into 
the  more  esoteric  sphere  of  time  travel.  This 
seems  to  us  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
since  jaunts  up  and  down  the  time  stream 
make  up  one  of  the  foundation  pillars  of 
science  fiction. 

Actually,  to  travel  faster  than  time  one 
would  have  to  travel  faster  than  the  speed 
of  light,  whose  186,000-plus  miles  per  sec- 
ond constitutes  the  absolute  speed  of  our 
universe.  And,  as  Dr.  Einstein  and  others 
have  pretty  well  proved  via  the  formula 
route,  attainment  of  such  speed  would  also 
imply  attainment  of  a mass  larger  than  the 
universe  itself. 

Before  attempting  further  to  explain 
this  apparent  anomaly,  we  are  going  to  take 
a digressive  moment  to  clear  up  a very 
general  semantic  misunderstanding  in  the 
matter  of  "time”  itself.  For  while  the 
speed  of  light  is  measured  in  light-years  and 
parsecs,  such  terms  are  virtually  meaning- 
less in  relation  to  the  seconds,  minutes, 
hours,  days  and  years  by  which  we  meas- 
ure our  existence.  They  are  symbols  of 
space-time,  which  is  really  far  too  vast  for 
our  emotional  comprehension. 

And  from  here  on  in  we  are  speaking  in 
terms  of  space-time. 

Not  As  Strange  As  It  SourTds 

As  generally  expressed  the  idea  of  any 
of  us,  having  somehow  surpassed  the 
speed  of  light  or  better,  attaining  such  in- 
credible mass  as  to  burst  right  out  of  the 
bounds  of  the  Milky  ^Way  is  simply  ludi- 


crous. However,  when  considered  more 
fully,  it  is  not  as  ridiculous  as  it  sounds. 

For,  to  exceed  the  absolute  speed  of  our 
universe  we  must  necessarily  ge  outside 
of  it — in  short  to  tap  the  macrocosm,  that 
universe  of  which  ours  is  no  more  than  a 
molecular  part.  Only  in  such  a super-uni- 
verse  will  the  speed  of  our  light  be  less 
than  absolute.  And  this  we  can  scarcely 
hope  to  tap  while  we  are  imprisoned  within 
our  own  as  yet  not-so-tight  little  island 
galaxy. 

To  draw  a parallel  from  the  microcosm, 
the  universe  of  the  infinitesimally  small,  it 
is  as  if — ^while  studying  an  electronic  mo- 
tion through  some  super-electronic  micro- 
scope— one  of  our  nuclear  physicists  were 
to  find  evidences  of  some  strange  device 
bursting  right  out  of  an  atomic  structure 
to  assume  actual  existence  in  our  world, 
however  minutely. 

The  "Overdrive" 

If  such  an  occurrence  should  be  spot- 
ted, recorded  or  understood,  which  is  high- 
ly doubtful  at  present,  consider  the  sensa- 
tion it  would  cause.  For  it  would  be  proof 
of  an  incredibly  advanced  intelligent  scien- 
tific living  culture  in  objects  we  can  as  yet 
only  record  through  tracer  media.  It  would 
stand  nuclear  physics  on  its  collective  ear. 
Thus  the  mere  mechanics  of  physical  time 
travel  constitute  a problem  calculated  to 
strain  the  mental  powers  of  even  the  most 
imaginative.  And  it  is  physical — not  mental 
' or  spiritual  time  travel — that  we  are  con- 
sidering here. 

Science  fiction  writers,  praise  Allah,  be- 
ing a resourceful  and  ingenious  crew,  have 
worked  out  all  sorts  of  evasions  in  their 


6 


achievement  of  this  near-impossible.  First 
they  have  developed  (are  you  there,  Mr. 
Lein.ster?)  something  called  “overdrive” — 
which  purportedly  enables  space  travelers 
to  exceed  light-speed  in  star  jaunts. 

To  work  around  the  universal-mass 
theory  they  have  come  up  with  something 
called  “subspace”  or  “hyperspace” — a math- 
ematically  possible  transdimensional  uni- 
verse into  which  such  travelers  can  dip  at 
will,  emerging  where  and  when  they  please. 
A few  others  have  tried  to  face  the  uni- 
versal-mass barrier  by  a sort  of  mist-out  as 
the  travelers’  atomic  structure  thins  in  the 
process  of  its  fabulous  galactic  growth,  to 
be  reassembled  with  the  ultimate  slow- 
down. 

This  last  is  one  we  find  particularly  hard 
to  take.  If  man  ever  invents  a method  and 
gadget  that  will  enable  him  to  surpass  the 
speed  of  light,  we  have  a hunch  he  will 
travel  within  it  as  comfortably  as  he  travels 
today  in  an  airliner — or  at  least  as  com- 
fortably as  in  the  XR-1.  Remember,  he  and 
his  immediate  environment  will  all  be  per- 
forming the  same  function  and  will  retain 
relative  densities  and  probably  relative 
tactual  appearances  if  successful. 

Parallel  Time-Tracks 

At  this  point  in  any  discussion  of  time 
travel  some  joker  usually  gets  up  on  his 
hind  legs  and  says,  “Okay — but  if  time 
travel  is  ever  going  to  be  possible,  why 
don’t  we  know  about  it?  Why  aren’t  there 
records  of  folk  from  the  far  future  visiting 
us  in  the  past?” 

To  this  there  are  several  answers.  Most 
favored  by  our  authors  at  the  moment  is 
the  parallel  time-track  theory,  which  pre- 
supposes the  existence  of  an  endless  num- 
ber of  universes,  of  Earths,  of  ourselves, 
all  stemming  from  moments  of  individual, 
world  or  universal  decision.  In  this  propo- 
sition — sometimes  called  the  “broom” 
theory  because  of  the  sprouting  of  straws 
at  its  end — a time  traveler  going  back  from 
the  present  or  future  would  cause  at  once 
the  birth  of  a new  and  divergent  Earth, 
would  thus  not  be  in  “our”  history. 

While  this  is  an  effective  fictional  and 
philosophical  device  it  presents  a number 
of  practical  flaws — for  instance,  why 
should  our  particular  world  be  one  un- 
visited by  such  time  travelers?  Why  should 
only  other  worlds  get  them? 

A second  answer  suggests  that  such 

\Turn  TMffc] 


TO  PEOPLE 
Who  Want  To  Write 

but  can't  get  started 

Do  you  have  that  constant  urge  to  write 
but  fear  that  a beginner  hasn’t  a chance  ? 
Then  listen  to  what  the  former  editor  of 
Liberty  said  on  this  subject: 

*^There  i»  more  room  ior  newcomers  in  the  writing  fio/rf 
today  than  over  before.  Some  of  the  greatest  of  writing 
men  and  women  have  passed  from  the  «cono  in  recent 
years.  Who  will  take  their  placet?  Who  will  be  the  new 
Robert  W,  Chambers,  Edgar  Wallace,  Rudyard  Kipling? 
Fame,  riches  and  the  happiness  of  achievement  await  the 
new  men  and  women  of  power** 

Sells  First  Story  at  60 

''Since  2 am  crowding  threescore,  my 
objective  in  taking  the  2V.2.A.  course 
was  not  to  become  a professhnid 
writer.  However,  while  still  taking 
the  course,  I sent  an  article  to  St. 
Joseph  Megasine.  It  was  immediately 
accepted.  Erteouraged,  I wrote  others. 
Our  Navy  accepted  them  and  asked 
for  more.  All  thanks  to  NJ.A.  — 
Albert  M.  Hinman,  1937  East  SUwet 
Street,  Tucson,  Arisona, 

Writing  Aptitude  Test  — FREEI 

The  Newspaper  Institute  of  America  offers  a free  Writ* 
me  Aptitude  Test.  Its  object  is  to  discover  new  recruits 
for  the  army  of  men  and  women  who  add  to  their  income 
by  fiction  and  article  writing.  The  Writing  Aptitude  Test 
is  a simple  but  expert  analysis  of  your  latent  ability^  your 
powers  of  imagination,  logic,  etc.  Not  all  applicants  pass 
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7 


NOW  HEAI^S 
WHISPERS! 


1 


New  Kind  «f  Hearing-Aid 
Makes  Living  Worthwhile! 

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Name 


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time  travelers  may  actually  have  visited 
us  during  the  comparatively  brief  period 
of  m^’s  history  and  pre-history.  Those 
inclining  to  this  view  cite  everything  from 
the  "white  gods”  of  the  Aztecs,  which  made 
them  such  easy  prey  for  Cortez,  to  various 
mysterious  “lost  race”  ruins,  up  to  and  in- 
cluding Crater  Lake  and  the  Siberian 
meteor  blast  of  forty-five-odd  years  ago^ 
For  all  we  know  they  may  have  something 
— but  we  doubt  it. 

Let's  Apply  Some  Logic 

However,  in  view  of  the  appalling  diffi- 
culties of  physical  time  travel,  we  are  in- 
clined to  regard  the  problem  in  a more  pro- 
saic light.  Let’s  try  to  look  at  this  highly 
ephemeral  matter  with  some  degree  of 
logic. 

In  the  first  place  it  seems  unlikely  that 
mankind  will  attain  such  travel  until  it  has 
conquered  space  flight  not  only  to  the  plan- 
ets of  the  Solar  System  but  to  the  other 
stars  and  their  planets.  By  then  it  is  pos- 
sible that  good  old  Terra  may  have  been 
utterly  abandoned  and  forgotten — may  even 
have  blown  itself  up.  In  such  case  no  time 
traveler  would  be  apt  to  return  here. 

Then  there  is  the  little  matter  of  accom- 
plishing such  a pin-point  landing  after  tap- 
ping the  macrocosm.  Remember,  our  galaxy 
has  hundreds  of  thousands  if  not  millions  of 
stars,  among  which  our  sun  is  a compara- 
tively trivial  entity.  To  ask  time  travelers  to 
find  it  would  be  like  asking  a nuclear 
physicist  to  locate  an  electron  within  an 
electron. 

Even  returning  to  the  correct  universe 
once  the  macrocosm  has  been  entered  would 
be  asking  close  to  the  impossible.  For  just 
as  atomic  life  in  our  microcosm  is  incredi- 
bly brief — and  each  atom  may  well  be  a gal- 
axy in  itself — so  the  laws  of  the  super-uni- 
verse will  almost  certainly  include  a vast- 
ness of  time,  a great  slowdown,  against 
which  even  our  parsec  (roughly  3.26  light 
years  or  19.2  trillion  miles)  would  be  so 
brief  as  to  be  practically  non-existent. 

Unending  Rotation 

And  then  there  is  the  matter  of  the  un- 
ending rotation  of  Earth,  the  movement  of 
our  Solar  System  within  the  galaxy,  the 
movement  of  the  galaxy  itself  in  relation 
to  other  galaxies.  Correct  calculation  of  so 
many  factors  implies  a type  of  super  space- 
time  astrogation  which  seems  well  beyond 


brains  of  today,  both  human  and  cybernetic. 
You’d  have  to  land  not  only  when  but  where. 
Time  travel  into  the  past  is  thus  an  incred- 
ibly difficult  problem  from  any  points  of 
view  save  those  of  higher  mathematics  and 
philosophy.  And  time  travel  into  the  future 
is  even  tougher.  If  through  some  trans- 
dimensional  path  it  were  possible  to  fore- 
stall space-time,  there  would  be  the  little 
matter  of  getting  into  space  ahead  of  the 
world  and  waiting  for  it  to  come  by  and  pick 
us  up.  This  would  be  like  asking  a V-2 
rocket  to  come  down  safely  with  a weather 
balloon  which  had  been  parked  carefully 
along  its  path  some  fifty  miles  in  the  air — 
only  about  a hundred  thousand  times  as 
tricky. 

Outside  of  fiction  and  problematical 
thought,  time  travel  at  present — at  least 
from  a practical  viewpoint — can  be  consid- 
ered a virtual  impossibility.  And  even  when 
it  is  achieved  it  looks  as  if  there  will  be 
no  future  in  it! 


OUR  NEXT  ISSUE 

Holding  down  the  lead  short-novel 
spot  in  the  December  TWS,  will  be 
Leigh  Brackett  with  THE  CITADEL  OF 
LOST  AGES.  Without  elements  of  time 
travel  this  story  takes  us  into  a far-distant 
future  to  a world  half  of  darkness,  half  of 
light,  whose  one  face  is  always  toward  the 
sun,  its  other  facing  the  freezing  darkness 
of  the  outer  void. 

It  is  a world  dominated  by  the  Numi,  a 
mystical  priestly  sect  who,  unaided  by  the 
science  of  the  past,  have  developed  tremen- 
dous psychic  gifts  in  an  effort  to  maintain 
their  mastery  over  a less  fortunate  and  de- 
graded humanity.  Their  crowning  achieve- 
ment is  a race  memory  evocation  through 
hypnotism  by  which  they  hope  to  rediscov- 
er the  location  of  a “Citadel”  of  knowledge 
which  legend  has  it  contains  the  secrets  of 
man  at  his  atomic  peak. 

Vehicle  for  their  experiment  is  a rebel 
named  Fenn  of  atavistic  tendencies  and  re- 
bellious nature,  who  remembers  himself 
under  treatment  as  Fenway,  a citizen  of 
long  lost  and  forgotten  New  York  City. 
Unfortunately  he  also  loses  his  identity  and 
memories  of  Fenn,  the  man  he  is  in  his 
own  degenerate  world. 

However,  he  escapes  from  the  Numi  with 
the  aid  of  the  girl,  Arika,  and  is  able  to  set 
(Continued  on  vaae  142) 


THB  JOBfe  PoNewexACT  rtacM. 
6TANPARPS  gyAUTHORIzeO 
» SECONOITlONeRS/WKE. 

. ANP  A 03MM.ETE  JO^ 


Hieystigwedme* 


'says  Mike 

(FKOMMissovm) 

Hotyfo  give  my  faithful 
Fbnla  new  future  {* 


WHB4  I VISITED  DNE  DF  THE  AUTHOWZED 
FDRD  RECONPITIDNINe  PtANTS 


TMATOUSHTTO 
MGVISAVINeS 
. ONSAS/OH.N 
AND  UPKEEP  J 


• CRANKSHAFTS,  (MAASNAFt  SOSHINSS,  WU.VESUIPES, 
TIWNS  gears,  PISTDNS,  RINGS,  BEARINSS,  RODS, 
VAIVES,  GASKETS, STUDS,  NUTS...AU.  CQAAPtETHy 
RECONDITlONHJORREPtAcePWnrH. . . . 


GENUINE 


guaranty 

90  DAYS 

OR 

4,000 

Mites 


AUTHORIZED 
RECONOmONED 
FORD  ENGINES 

AND  ENGINE  ACCESSORIES 


9 


'Ttuiki  'Tkat  ffave  Ecan 


For  eveiy  word  that  haa  left  the  lipa  of  bishops  ot  states- 
men to  enlighten  man^  a thousand  have  been  withheld. 
For  every  book  publicly  exposed  to  the  inquiring  mind;  one 
hundred  more  have  been  suppressed— <fomne</  to  obliaion.  Each 
year  of  progress  has  been  wilfully  delayed  centuries.  Wisdom 
has  had  to  Qter  through  biased,  secret  sessions  or  ecclesiastical 
council  meetings,  wh^  high  dignitaries  of  state  and  church 
Slone  proclaimed  what  man  shoidd  know. 

Are  you  prepared  to  demand  the  hidden  facts  of  life?  Will 
you  continue  to  believe  that  you  are  not  capable  of  weighing 
the  worth  of  knowledge  that  concerns  your  personal  freedom 
end  happiness?  Realize  that  much  that  can  make  your  life 
cnore  undtratandabh  end  livable  has  been  left  unexplained  or 
intentionally  destroyed.  At  first  by  word  of  mouth  only,  and 
now  by  private  discourses,  ere  teoealed  those  truths  which 
secret  brotherhoods  preserved  in  endent  temples  and  hidden 
sanctuaries,  frcnn  those  who  sought  to  selfishly  deprive  bor 
inanity  of  them. 


TraS /rcc  BOOK  OP  EXPLANATION 
Let  the  Rosicrucians,  one  M these  andent  brotherhoods  of 
learning,  tell  you  about  these  amazing  truths^  and  explain 
bow  you)  toO)  like  thousands  of  others,  may  now  use  them 
to  enjoy  the  fullness  of  life.  The  Rosicrudans,  (not  a re- 
ligious organization)  invite  you  to  use  the  coupon  opposite 
end  recdve  the  FREE  copy  of  the  fascinating.  Sealed  Book) 
;witb  its  startling  tale  of  self  help. 

We  ROSICRUCIANS  (AMORG) 

SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA)  U.S.A. 


r« 


Scribe  V.GX. 

THB  ROSICRUCIANS  (AMORC) 
Roricrudaa  Peric,  San  Joee,  California*  O&A. 

Pleaae  tend  me  your  FREE  Sealed  Boolu  1 
•m  rincerely  Intereated  in  learning  bow  I may 
receive  these  long-concealed  facts  of  Ufe* 

Name 




10 


....iM  JOHn  D.mncDomiiD 

It’s  a case  ot  the  humanities  versus  alien  efficiency 
when  the  emissaries  of  Strada  get  through  to 
Earth  via  a trans-galactic  back  door! 


SIJilDfllU 

Oil  r}j£  $mj 


CHAPTER  I 


Mission 


They  said  to  Amro,  “And  now  you  will  learn  a new  language.” 
There  was  no  desire  in  him  to  ask  them  where  the  language 
was  spoken  and  why  he  was  to  learn  it.  He  permitted  himself  to 
speculate  but  one  of  the  first  rules  learned  by  agents  of  the  Center 
is  that  no  activity  is  more  purposeless  than  asking  questions.  All 
information  that  you  must  know  is  given  to  you.  The  proper  outlet 
for  zeal  is  in  performance  of  the  assigned  duties.  And  Amro  had 

U 


An  Isolated  Vacation  Spot  Becomes  the  Focal 


been  a Center  agent  for  five  Stradian 
years. 

He  knew  that  he  was  a good  agent — 
one  of  the  very  best.  It  gave  him  a quiet 
pride  to  think  of  it.  His  body  was  good — 
as  hard  and  perfect  and  tireless  as 
though  made  of  metal  and  leather.  Oth- 
er agents  had  been  able  to  withstand 
seven  and  eight  complete  facial  opera- 
tions before  the  flesh  and  bone  began  to 
rebel. 

Amro  had  been  given,  during  his  five 
years,  fourteen  separate  identities  and 
when  the  surgeons  had  last  examined 
him  they  had  reported  no  signs  of  tis- 
sue weariness.  When  no  more  opera- 
tions could  be  performed  it  became  nec- 
essary to  resort  to  the  mask-maker’s 
art  and  that  was  never  as  completely 
satisfactory. 

But  there  were  more  than  physical 
requirements.  More  important  than 
knowing  ten  silent  ways  to  kill  a man 
with  his  hands,  than  being  an  expert 
with  knife  and  farris,  were  the  emotion- 
al factors.  Amro  possessed  an  almost  in- 
finite patience,  a thorough  lack  of  imag- 
ination, straight-line  logic  and  the  abil- 
ity to  make  a decision  in  the  smallest 
fraction  of  a second. 

As  a case  in  point  there  was  the  af- 
fair of  Morr,  the  almost  senile  member 
of  the  appropriations  council.  Morr  was 
important  only  because  he  sat  at  coun- 
cil next  to  Strell,  the  man  most  thor- 
oughly suspicious  of  the  Center,  the  man 
determined  to  emasculate  the  Center 
through  forcing  a full  scale  investiga- 
tion. Strell,  being  a shrewd  man,  had 
himself  guarded  every  moment  with  his 
guard  detail  screened  for  substitutions 
several  times  each  day. 

The  Center  had  picked  Morr  up  after 
Amro  had  spent  two  months  being  pre- 
pared, fattened,  softened,  altered.  Dur- 
ing the  two  months  Amro  had  learned 
to  imitate  to  perfection  Morr’s  every 
movement.  As  Morr,  Amro  sat  in  on 
eleven  council  meetings  before  the 
chance  came.  It  had  to  be  done  in  such 
a way  that  it  would  net  point  to  the  Cen- 
ter, 

Amro  did  it  without  awakening 


the  suspicion  of  the  two  guards  who 
watched  the  murder. 

As  the  eleventh  meeting  ended  Amro 
stood  up  at  the  same  moment  as  Strell 
and  blundered  clumsily  into  him.  To  the 
watchers,  Strell  appeared  to  trip  and 
fall  toward  the  table.  His  bulk  screened 
the  quick  movement  of  Amro’s  arm  as 
he  grasped  the  front  of  Strell’s  tunic 
and,  with  savage  force,  pulled  and  guid- 
ed the  fall  so  that  the  bridge  of  Strell’s 
nose  hit  the  sharp  table  edge. 

That  evening  the  drugged  Morr  was 
given  the  final  details.  He  was  placed  in 
his  own  chambers  to  awaken  the  next 
morning  with  a complete  “memory”  of 
all  that  had  happened.  . . . 

So  now  they  said,  “You  will  learn  a 
new  language.” 

He  was  taken  to  one  of  the  small 
windowless  rooms  where  the 
equipment  awaited  him.  There  were  a 
couch,  a food  terminal,  sanitation  facil- 
ities, an  exercise  rack.  He  shut  the  door 
behind  him.  When  he  was  fluent  in  the 
language  he  would  open  the  door.  It  was 
that  simple. 

He  selected  a spindle  at  random  and 
threaded  it  into  the  instructor.  Amro 
was  pleased  to  hear  that,  unlike  the 
pipings  of  the  kalla  or  the  metallic  clat- 
terings  of  the  Shen,  this  tongue  would 
not  require  the  use  of  one  of  the  con- 
verters plus  ear  filters. 

The  spindles  showed  no  signs  of  wear. 
He  could  not  recall  ever  having  heard 
the  language  spoken.  He  shrugged,  at- 
tached the  basic  spindle  sequence,  took 
two  of  the  learning  acceleration  tablets, 
stretched  out  on  the  couch  and  pressed 
the  yall  switch. 

By  the  tenth  day  he  was  sufficiently 
fluent  to  request  written  texts.  He  was 
told  that  none  had  been  prepared  but 
that  he  would  be  given  tests  prepared  by 
the  people  in  question. 

They  arrived  and  they  were  most 
curious.  He  sat  on  the  couch  and  han- 
dled them.  In  the  first  place  they  were 
printed  on  a white  fragile  substance 
which  was  new  to  him.  And  after  many 
hours  of  intense  effort,  aided  by  captions 


Point  in  a Struggle  that  Spans  Two  Universes! 


under  many  pictures  in  the  texts,  he 
managed  to  identify  specific  words  he 
had  learned — discovering  in  the  process 
that  the  writing  was  from  left  to  right 
in  a horizontal  pattern,  continuous  as 
the  white  sheets  were  turned  from  right 
to  left. 

In  four  more  days  he  was  reading 
rapidly,  absorbing  facts  on  the  mores, 
folkways,  artifacts,  ethics  and  social 
structure  of  a large  and  almost  com- 
pletely alien  culture.  Almost  was  the 


AMRO 


word  to  use  because  the  aliens  as  shown 
in  the  pictures  could  just  as  well  have 
been  Stradians.  Of  course,  because  the 
other  items  in  the  pictures  furnished  no 
points  of  reference,  they  could  be  as  tall 
as  his  little  finger  or  three  times  his 
height,  but  he  had  the  belief  that  they 
were  like  himself. 

He  was  able  to  prove  this  when  he 
found  in  one  of  the  texts  a measurement 
which  he  believed  to  be  a universal  con- 
stant, a table  of  displacements  of  met- 
als. He  had  proven  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion that  the  “gold”  of  which  they 
spoke  was  identical  to  Stradian  eronal. 
With  a common  starting  point  he  was 
able  to  convert  their  units  of  linear 


measurement  into  Stradian  tables  and 
prove  that  they  were  indeed  identical 
in  height  to  the  average  Stradian. 

This  information  caused  a small  germ 
of  excitement  to  grow  in  him.  Stradian 
statistical  biologists  had  proved  to 
everyone’s  satisfaction  that  the  proba- 
bility of  identical  races  springing  up  on 
two  planets  was  almost  zero — identical, 
that  is,  in  physical  form. 

The  statistical  psychologists  had' 
proved  that  any  dominant  high-order  in- 
telligent species,  no  matter  what  the 
physical  form  involved,  will  share  with 
all  other  dominant  species  the  common 
factors  of  power-hunger,  ruthlessness, 
egocentricity  and  thalamic  reasoning. 
The  bitter  warfare  antedating  the  col- 
onization of  the  home  planets  of  the  Kal- 
la and  the  Shen  were  cases  in  point. 

Thus  he  read  with  the  idea  of  com- 
paring similarities  and  dissimilarities 
between  the  men  of  Strada  and  the 
men  of  this  place  called  Earth. 

And  he  found  that  the  Earthmen  were 
weak.  Weak  physically  in  that  it  was  a 
rare  Earthman  who  could  lift  more  than 
his  own  weight.  Weak  emotionally  in 
that  there  were  societies  and  organiza- 
tions dedicated  to  the  aim  of  stamping; 
out  “cruelty”  to  lesser  organisms.  Amro 
struggled  with  the  word  “cruelty”  for  a 
long  time  and  in  the  end  he  was  not 
completely  satisfied  with  his  own  inter- 
pretation. 

Their  society  had  social  weaknesses  in 
that  conflicts  of  ideology  were  permitted 
to  be  aired  and  voted  upon  by  everyone, 
thus  dragging  out  over  many  years  a 
conflict  that  could  have  been  decided  in 
the  very  beginning  by  a few  discreet  as- 
sassinations. Their  whole  society  gave 
him  a feeling  of  disorderliness — of 
vagueness.  It  seemed  full  of  cross-cur- 
rents, hints,  unwritten  suggestions. 
There  were  many  theologies  but  their 
amorphous  connotations  were  beyond 
him. 

In  the  back  of  one  text  he  found  maps 
of  their  world.  The  ratio  of  ocean  to 
land  was  not  unlike  Strada — in  fact  he 
seemed  to  be  able  to  detect  similarities 
in  tile  continental  outlines.  Like  Strada 


13 


14  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


Earth  had  polar  caps  and  a tropical  belt 
around  the  widest  circumference.  This 
appeared  to  refute  the  statistical  geog- 
raphers who  had  long  since  adopted  as  a 
basic  concept  the  rule  of  planetary  dis- 
similarity. 

Technologically  they  were  backward 
even  though  their  dominant  cultures 
were  technistic.  This  did  not  surprise 
him.  On  the  planet  itself  their  warring 
groups  were  separated  on  a “geograph- 
ical” and  a “linguistic”  basis  rather 
than  on  a social  basis  as  on  Strada.  Such 
rigid  compartmentalization  would,  of 
course,  mean  a serious  drag  on  scientific 
advancement. 

They  were  in  the  eight-minus  level, 
apparently.  Later,  when  he  found  a ref- 
erence to  the  manufacture  of  radioac- 
tives,  he  quickly  revised  it  to  six-minus, 
knowing  that  these  people  were  on  the 
verge  of  Newtonian  sub-light  space 
itravel. 

At  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  day  he 
opened  the  door  and  left  the  room. 
Lofta,  who  had  been  his  monitor  for 
three  years,  a man  grown  heavy  and 
igray  in  the  service  of  the  Center,  saw 
Amro  within  the  hour. 

Amro  still  wore  the  sagging  face  of 
Morr  though  his  body  had  leaned  and 
hardened.  He  stood  at  the  prescribed 
position  until  Lofta  motioned  him  to 
be  seated. 

Amro  felt  the  blunt  thrust  of  Lofta’s 
mind  and  there  was  a sudden  reaction 
of  anger.  Surely  by  this  time  Lofta 
knew  better  than  to  violate  his  mental 
privacy  as  though  he  were  dealing  with 
a recruit! 

He  yielded  before  the  probing,  put- 
ting up  token  resistance  only,  then 
dropped  all  defense,  accepting  the  pain 
in  order  to  slash  back,  catching  Lofta 
completely  off  balance.  The  older  man 
grunted  with  the  shock,  recovered  him- 
self on  the  very  verge  of  fainting,  smiled 
grimly.  “You  grow,  Amro,”  he  said. 

“I  am  obedient  but  I have  pride.” 
Lofta  sighed.  “We  shall  not  be  angry 
with  each  other.  What  have  you  learned 
along  with  the  language  you  wete 
given?” 


“Am  I to  describe  the  race?” 

“Of  course  not!  Surely  you  found 
something  odd  in  the  entire  problem.” 
“It  refutes  certain  accepted  rules  of 
the  sciences,  particularly  of  the  statis- 
tical branches.  A similar  race  and  a sim- 
ilar planet  should  not  exist.” 

“Nothing  else?” 

“No.” 

“Then  you  overlooked  another  seem- 
ing coincidence  merely  because  it  was 
too  evident.  Their  day  and  night  cor- 
responds to  ours  and  their  climate.  This 
indicates  a similar  rotation  of  the  plan- 
et on  its  axis  and  a probable  similar  dis- 
tance from  their  sun.  If  you  have  made 
conjectures  about  this  state  of  affairs 
you  may  report  them.” 

Amro  frowned.  “It  has  been  proven, 
Lofta,  that  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand of  our  years  ago  the  Stradai  had  a 
greater  civilization  than  we  have  now. 
We  found  evidence  in  the  legends  of  the 
Kalla  and  the  Shen  that  our  remote 
ancestors  had  visited  them.  No  one 
knows  what  happened. 

“The  Stradai  went  back  to  barbarian- 
ism  and  we  have  come  back  up  the  long 
road.  Now  you  have  given  me  evidence 
of  this  other  civilization.  I have  heard  of 
no  report  by  the  exploration  cruises. 
Therefore  the  planet  must  be  very  re- 
mote. I would  guess  that  before  our  pre- 
vious civilization  collapsed  Stradai  were 
placed  on  this  very  similar  planet. 

“Granting  the  existence  of  an  almost 
infinite  number  of  planets  it  would  be 
possible  to  find  one,  maybe,  very  like 
Strada.  It  could  even  be  possible  that 
some  of  the  Stradai  emigrated  to  that 
planet  called  Earth  when  they  saw  the 
signs  of  collapse  here.  They  too  lost 
their  science,  possibly  from  the  same 
unknown  cause.  We  have  grown  again 
and  we  have  surpassed  them.  To  think  of 
Earth  as  a lost  colony  accounts  for  the 
unexplained  similarities.” 

“Excellent,  Amro.  Excellent.” 

“I  am  right?” 

“You  said  that  the  planet  is  very  re- 
mote. We  do  not  have  a ship  which  can 
reach  it.” 

Amro  started  in  surprise.  “The  long- 
est possible  trip  is  six  billion  light  years, 


16 


16  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


Lofta.  Beyond  that  point  there  is  no  way 
to  avoid  returning  eventually  to  the 
starting  point.  Even  if  there  were  a sec- 
ond universe  placed  somehow  beyond 
this  one,  it  has  been  proven  impossible  to 
‘break  through’  the  enfolding  of  space.” 

“I  do  not  speak  of  a second  universe 
'beyond  this  one,  Amro.  I merely  said 
that  no  ship  can  reach  this  Earth  of 
which  we  speak — yet.” 

“Then  why  do  I waste  time  with  their 
language  You  speak  in  riddles.” 

“Now  you  are  angry  again.  Do  I 
speak  in  riddles?  We  have  no  ship  that 
can  reach  that  planet,  yet  it  is  intended 
that  you  shall  reach  it,  Amro — you  and 
others  of  the  Center.  You  may  think 
about  this. 

“You  are  dismissed.  Faven  and  Mas- 
sio  have  learned  the  language.  Others 
are  learning.  You  will  find  them  in 
room  A-Two  Hundred  Thirteen  point 
Nine.  Join  them  there  and  practise  this 
language.  Within  a short  time  we  will 
have  the  subjects  for  substitution.” 

Amro  went  to  the  door.  “I  would  like 
a young  one/’ 

“You  are  in  no  position  to  make  a re- 
quest.” 

Amro  shrugged  and  left. 

Faven  and  Massio  were  laughing 
when  he  walked  in.  He  had  once  worked 
with  Faven  and  their  dislike  was  mu- 
tual. She  was  tall  for  a woman  with  a 
deep  coldness  and  a watchfulness  about 
her  that  never  failed  to  remind  him  of 
the  furred  animals  tamed  by  the  Kalla. 
She  wore  the  face  of  her  last  substitu- 
tion, a face  he  had  not  seen  before,  snub- 
nosed and  gay,  with  flame  hair  and  a 
wide  moutlj.  Massio  he  had  never  met. 
The  man  was  younger  and  slighter  than 
Amro. 

Faven  had  a nasty  trick  of  plunging 
without  warning  a rapier  of  inquiry  into 
the  minds  of  her  equals  and  inferiors, 
a darting  stinging  thing,  agile  as  quick- 
silver. She  indulged  her  hates  and  her 
lusts  with  equal  ferocity.  Amro  had 
tried  and  failed  to  root  out  of  himself 
the  small  feeling  of  fear  that  she  gave 
him. 

She  was  the  only  thing  under  the 
sun  of  Strada  that  he  did  fear. 


SHE  introduced  them  in  a mocking 
way,  using  the  new  tongue.  Massio 
and  Amro  responded  in  kind. 

“Where  are  we  going?”  Faven  asked. 
“That  seems  to  be  the  question.  Lof- 
ta was  self-consciously  vague.”  She 
stretched  luxuriously,  again  reminding 
him  of  one  of  the  furred  bea.sts,  lay  back 
on  the  couch  and  pouted  at  them. 

“Wherever  it  is  it  is  important,”  Am- 
ro said.  “I  am  no  longer  used  on  unim- 
portant missions  nor  are  you,  Faven. 
And  Massio,  here,  has  been  honored  for 
the  work  he  did  on  Caenia  with  the  sub- 
section of  the  Center  there.  To  put  three 
of  us  on  the  same  mission  implies  that 
it  is  of  the  highest  importance  to  the 
Center.” 

“Or  the  highest  importance  to  the 
League,”  Faven  said  lazily. 

“We  are  growing  weaker,”  Massio 
said,  his  voice  heavy. 

“Damn  the  League,”  Amro  said.  He 
paced  restlessly.  "When  is  this  pretense 
of  friendship  going  to  stop?  When  are 
the  agents  of  the  Center  and  the  agents 
of  the  League  coming  out  from  under- 
ground for  honest  warfare?” 

“I  like  it  the  way  it  is,”  Faven  said. 
“I  like  stealth  and  darkness.  You  know 
what  will  happen  when  it  comes  out  in 
the  open.  We  know  too  much.  We  can 
nova  a sun,  explode  a planet,  blast  a sea 
into  steam  in  a tenth  of  a second.  What 
good  is  an  individual  under  those  cir- 
cumstances? No,  let  us  stay  quietly  nib- 
bling at  each  other’s  throats.  At  that 
game  I can  be  of  some  use.” 

“If  we  could  strike  first  we  could  get 
it  over  with,”  Amro  insisted.  “What  if 
after  we  have  won  there  are  only  a hand- 
ful of  planets?  They’ll  be  Center  plan- 
ets, won’t  they?  Ultimate  victory?” 
“And  if  no  planets  are  left?”  Massio 
asked.  “Just  a few  manned  ships  in  the 
wilderness  of  space?” 

“Then,”  Amro  said,  “those  ships  can 
find  suitable  planets  and  they  will  carry 
the  seed  of  our  science.” 

“You  talk  rot,”  Faven  said  irritably. 
“The  Center  and  the  League  are,  as  far 
as  two  trillion  peaceful  citizens  are  con- 
cerned, big  chummy  organizations 
working  hand  in  glove  for  the  better- 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  17 


ment  of  all.  It  was  set  up  as  a check 
and  balance  system  with  the  League 
responsible  for  all  administration  and 
government,  the  Center  responsible  for 
all  research  and  scientific  advances. 

“When  it  was  set  up  the  smart  ones 
didn’t  realize  that  the  League,  holding 
the  purse  strings,  would  try  to  emascu- 
late the  Center  and  take  over  little  by 
little  the  research  end,  fattening  their 
own  pockets,  turning  themselves  into  a 
happy  little  monopoly  of  everything.” 

Massio  said  bitterly,  “So  the  Center 
struck  back  by  setting  up  secret  re- 
search projects,  taking  over  adminis- 
tration and  government  on  outlying 
planet  groups.  I wonder  if  those  peace- 
ful citizens  you  speak  about,  Faven,  ever 
wonder  about  the  high  mortality  rate 
among  the  surface  staff  of  the  Center 
and  the  League.” 

"Two  conflicting  basic  ideas  of  so- 
cial structure  cannot  exist  side  by  side,” 
Amro  said.  “Either  we  become  a use- 
less appendage  to  the  League,  or  we 
take  over  the  reins  the  way  we  should. 
It’s  that  simple.” 

“Amro,  the  disciple  of  violence,”  Fa- 
ven said,  yawning.  “That  idea  of  yours 
about  striking  first  is  dandy.  But  how? 
Their  espionage  is  as  good  or  maybe 
even  better  than  ours.  Four  fifths  of 
Center  agents  are  constantly  assigned 
to  the  problem  of  seeing  that  they  don’t 
strike  first.  Do  you  think  their  forces 
are  distributed  any  differently? 

“Your  reasoning  has  always  been  su- 
perficial, Amro.  In  order  to  strike  first, 
ther''  has  to  be  a concentration  of  power 
and  a place  to  strike  from.  Their  surveil- 
lance makes  that  as  impossible  for  us 
as  ours  makes  it  impractical  for  them. 
And  neither  side  will  move  into  the  open 
unless  they  can  be  sure  of  complete  sur- 
prise. Outnumbering  is  no  good  vihen 
one  determined  space  cruiser  left  at 
large  can  reverse  the  entire  war.” 

Massio  stood  up.  He  wore  a puzzled 
look.  “I  wonder — ” 

"What?”  Faven  asked. 

“Maybe  this  unheard-of  planet  could 
be  the  base,  the  place  for  a concentra- 
tion of  power.” 

The  three  of  them  were  silent.  Amro 


hit  his  hard  thigh  with  a clenched  fist. 
“It  could  be  exactly  that!” 

The  excitement  in  them  slowly  dwin- 
dled as  the  hours  went  by.  They  prac- 
tised the  new  tongue  for  a long  time 
and  then  played  a word  game.  Massio 
devised  in  his  mind  a complicated  sen- 
tence of  ten  word.s  and  then  projected 
them,  one  at  a time,  into  Amro’s  mind. 

To  receive  each  word  Amro  had  to  re- 
lax his  guard  at  the  moment  he  felt  the 
thrust  and  then  close  his  mind  before 
Faven  could  catch  the  word.  Faven 
could  either  snatch  the  word  by  thrust- 
ing at  Massio’s  mind  during  the  moment 
of  sending  or  by  entering  Amro’s  mind 
during  the  fraction  of  a second  of  relax- 
ation. 

TO  Amro’s  intense  annoyance  she 
made  no  attempt  to  wrest  the  word 
from  Massio.  On  the  third  word  she 
slipped  by  his  guard  with  perfect  timing, 
thrusting  so  unnecessarily  deep  that  the 
pain  sickened  him  for  a moment.  She 
did  the  same  on  the  sixth  and  seventh 
word  and  that  gave  her  enough  to  guess 
the  sense  of  the  sentence.  Since  she  had 
wrested  the  words  from  Amro  she  took 
his  place  for  the  next  round  with  Mas- 
sio sending  again. 

Amro  concentrated  on  Faven,  an- 
noyed beyond  measure  as  he  counted  the 
transmittal  of  six  words,  stopped  each 
time  by  the  rapidity  with  which  she 
erected  a guard  against  intrusion. 

The  seventh  word  slipped  by.  Amro 
suddenly  jumped  up  and  turned  toward 
the  door,  his  body  tense.  He  anticipated 
that,  for  a fraction  of  a second,  Faven 
would  assume  receptivity  for  whoever 
might  be  approaching  the  door. 

He  thrust  back  along  that  channel  of 
receptivity  with  all  his  strength,  smash- 
ing so  far  back  into  her  mind  that  he 
reached  the  threshold  of  the  instinctive 
level.  He  plucked  the  seven  transmitted 
words  out  of  her  fading  mind  as  he 
turned  just  in  time  to  see  her  topple 
from  the  couch. 

She  recovered  almost  immediately 
and  crouched  there,  her  mouth  twisting 
and  working.  “You’re  vile!”  she  said. 
“It’s  a lesson  you’ve  been  needing. 


il8  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


Faven.  And  watch  what  you  say.  You 
won’t  have  immunity  back  for  several 
.linutes.  Do  you  understand?”  He 
thrust  along  the  same  channel  again, 
pushing  easily  by  the  slowly  accumulat- 
ing resistance,  seeing  her  eyes  lose  fo- 
cus, her  lips  pale.  “I  could  do  you  serious 
damage,”  he  said  gently. 

“I  hate  you,”  she  gasped. 

He  grinned,  resting  easily  within  her 
mind,  feeling  the  hate  shadows  and  the 
pain.  The  will  eluded  him,  circling  like 
a trapped  thing  until  he  clenched  it 
firmly.  Still  smiling  he  brought  her  to 
her  feet  and  toward  him  in  the  jerky 
uncoordinated  walk  of  the  hypnotic  re- 
sistance level.  He  forced  her  to  drop 
to  her  knees,  caress  his  foot  and  kiss  the 
Ibare  instep.  Then  he  released  her. 

To  his  shocked  surprise  she  did  not 
move  but  stayed  there,  looking  up  at 
him.  He  waited  for  the  return  whiplash 
of  her  mind  as  her  strength  returned. 
Her  eyes,  however,  held  no  glint  of  an- 
ger. He  pushed  gently  and  found  her 
mind  completely  open  and  undefended, 
,held  open  by  her  will. 

He  probed  until  he  found  the  thought, 
sparklingly  clear,  “You  should  have 
punished  me  long  ago,  Amro.” 

“Why?” 

“No  one  has  ever  been  able  to  disci- 
pline me  before.  I’ll  do  anything  you 
ask  of  me.” 

Ill  at  ease,  he  walked  over  to  the  food 
terminal,  said  aloud,  “Do  you  have  any 
particular  preferences,  Faven,  Massio? 
I starve.” 

“Order  for  me,”  Faven  said. 

When  he  looked  around  she  was  seat- 
ed on  the  couch,  her  eyes  glowing.  Mas- 
sio acted  embarrassed. 

They  selected  the  food  and  they  ate. 

■ ■ -■ 

CHAPTER  II 

Doorway 

■ 

JERRY  RAYMOND,  stripped  down 
to  swimming  trunks,  stared  at  the 
watercolor  block  and  grunted  with  dis- 


gust. He  sat  crosslegged  on  a dune  a 
hundred  feet  from  the  water’s  edge.  He 
had  wanted  to  get  the  effect  of  the  aft- 
ernoon light  on  that  lonesome  strip  of 
sand  and  brush  with  the  deep  green 
water  beyond  it. 

But  how  was  it  possible  to  do  any- 
thing right  when  Fran  had  been  gone 
over  three  hours  with  that  supposed 
friend,  Quinn  French? 

He  turned  and  stood  up,  peeling  the 
spoiled,  botched  watercolor  off  the  block, 
staring  back  up  the  coastline  to  where 
the  lighthouse  at  Port  Isabel  was  a tiny 
projection  against  the  deepening  blue 
of  the  late  afternoon  sky. 

His  wife,  Fran,  had  claimed  that 
there  was  shopping  to  do.  Only  after 
Jerry  had  indicated  that  he  would  stay 
behind  had  Quinn  French  remembered 
that  he  had  some  errands  of  his  own. 
Three  hours — more  than  enough  time  to 
drive  into  Harlingen. 

He  shook  out  the  brush,  picked  up  the 
cardboard  box  of  tubes  and  the  plastic 
pallet  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house.  It  had  been  built  long  ago  by  a 
fisherman.  The  gray  wood  had  writhed 
away  from  the  rusted  nails.  Four  rooms 
and  modern  inconveniences — but  ample 
for  Fran  and  himself. 

When  the  company  doctors  had  dis- 
covered that  the  infected  skin  rash  had 
come  from  the  new  compound  he  had 
been  working  on,  the  company  had  au- 
thorized a six  months’  leave  of  absence 
with  pay.  It  could  have  been  the  best 
time  of  their  lives,  he  thought  dourly. 
Sun  and  sand  and  Fran  and  moonlight 
across  the  quiet  Gulf  water,  protected 
by  the  outlying  reef. 

He  had  never  been  completely  sure  of 
Fran.  She  was  too  lovely  and  too  alive  to 
be  sure  of.  Then  Quinn  French  had 
shmvn  up.  “Surprise!”  he  had  shouted. 

Fran  seemed  glad  to  see  him.  And 
two  became  three.  They  could  both  out- 
swim  him.  Quinn  French  was  built  with 
enormous  shoulders,  honey  tan  slanting 
down  across  broad  chest  into  flat  belly 
and  slim  hips,  then  bulging  out  again 
into  the  convexity  of  thigh  muscles  and 
thick  calves.  His  laugh  was  a deep  boom. 

Jerry  Raymond  was  forced  to  admit 


19 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND 


that  when  he  saw  Fran  and  Quinn 
walking  along  the  beach  they  made  a 
spectacular  couple.  He  wondered  if 
Fran  felt  the  same  way.  And  Quinn,  of 
course,  would  never  have  to  work  a day 
in  his  life.  When  they  swam  out,  so  far 
that  he  could  barely  see  their  heads, 
he  knew  that  they  swam  too  close  to- 
gether. He  thought  of  Quinn  touching 
her  and  hate  made  him  feel  faint. 

Ever  since  the  skin  rash — and  now  it 
was  almost  gone — Fran  had  acted  a bit 
odd.  He  had  sensed  the  restraint  in  her, 
as  though  he  had  become  something  dis- 
tasteful to  her. 

Fran  and  Quinn  were  too  much  to- 
gether. And  so  Jerry  had  eagerly  agreed 
when  Quinn  had  tentatively  suggested 
asking  another  guest  down,  a girl.  She 
would  arrive  from  New  York  within  the 
week.  Jerry  had  seen  the  glint  of  anger 
in  Fran's  eyes  when  Quinn  had  suggest- 
ed the  fourth  member  of  the  party. 

He  stood  and  looked  dov/n  the  road, 
hoping  to  see  the  sun  glint  on  the 
chrome  of  Quinn’s  convertible.  Why 
were  they  staying  away  so  long' 

Before  marriage  he  had  never  minded 
being  alone.  But  now  whenever  Fran 
was  away  from  him  he  felt  incomplete. 
They  had  said  that  after  a year  or  so 
of  marriage  some  of  the  spice  was  gone. 
But  here  it  was,  nearly  three  years.  And 
still  the  thought  of  her  mouth,  sun-sheen 
on  her  misty  black  hair,  round  length 
of  thigh,  insolence  of  breast,  made  him 
feel  faint  and  even  ill  when  he  dwelt 
on  them  too  long.  Ill  with  the  need  for 
her.  Ill  because  somehow  she  never 
quite  ceased  to  be  a stranger. 

Where  would  they  be?  Side  by  side  in 
the  car?  Or  had  they  stopped?  Had  they 
driven  down  one  of  the  sandy  tracks  to 
a secret  part  of  the  long  coast?  Could  it 
be  that,  even  as  he  thought  of  it,  the 
two  of  them  were  ...  He  made  a small 
anguished  sound  and  struck  the  outside 
wall  of  the  house  with  his  fist,  then 
studied  the  reddened  knuckles. 

The  yellow  of  the  sun  was  taking  on 
a reddish  hue  as  it  set  behind  the  house. 
Sandpipers  ran  fast-legged  in  the  gentle 
wash  of  the  small  waves.  A gull  chuckled 
harshly,  balancing,  pivoting  to  sweep 


down  toward  the  troughs. 

He  went  down  to  the  sea  and  swam 
out  fifty  yards  slowly,  floating  for  a time 
on  his  back.  Then  he  swam  in,  harder 
and  faster,  disappointment  shrill  in  him 
as  he  saw  that  the  convertible  was  not 
yet  parked  beside  his  five-year-old  se- 
dan. He  stood  naked  under  the  outside 
shower,  toweled  himself,  dressed  care- 
fully in  gray  slacks  and  a white  nylon 
sports  shirt.  He  combed  his  dark  hair 
carefully  and  studied  his  thin  nervous 
face  in  the  mirror  as  though  it  were  the 
face  of  a stranger. 

He  would  get  in  the  car  and  look 
for  them. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  house.  The  sun 
made  the  shadow  of  the  house  long.  It 
stretched  almost  to  the  water’s  edge. 
There  was  an  odd  oblong  projection 
from  one  edge  of  the  shadow.  It  puz- 
zled him.  He  went  out  and  looked  back 
at  the  house.  There  was  nothing  that 
would  cause  the  irregularity. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  shadow 
and  the  hair  prickled  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  as  he  realized  what  was  wrong 
with  it.  Instead  of  stretching  itself  flat- 
ly along  the  ground  the  way  a proper 
shadow  should,  this  one  stood  upright. 

He  shut  his  eyes  hard  and  opened 
them  again.  Some  trick  of  the  light, 
some  vagary  of  the  setting  sun. 

Also,  the  color  of  the  shadow  wasn’t 
quite  right.  As  an  amateur  artist,  Jer- 
ry Raymond  had  studied  color.  Shadows 
are  not  black.  They  are  deep  browns  and 
purples  and  blues  and  greens.  But  try  as 
he  might  he  could  see  no  color  in  this 
upright  oblong  shadow.  It  stood  rough- 
ly eight  feet  tall  and  half  that  width. 
’The  edges  were  geometrically  clear, 
with  no  fuzziness  whatever. 

He  smiled  without  humor.  It  was  like 
some  damnable  doonoay. 

OUINN  FRENCH’S  big  hands  made 
the  steering  wheel  look  frail.  The 
car  skittered  on  the  edge  of  control  on 
the  curves.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
woman  beside  him  and  when  he  had  a 
chance  he  glanced  over  at  her,  taking  in 
in  that  fraction  of  a second  the  new 
heavy-lidded  look  of  her  eyes,  the  com- 


JO  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


plete  relaxation  of  the  way  she  sat,  her 
hands  loosely  linked  in  her  lap,  her  body 
slumped  so  that  her  head  rested  against 
the  back  of  the  seat. 

"Too  fast?”  he  asked. 

"No,  Quinn,  We  stayed  away  too  long. 
Much  too  long.” 

"Sorry?” 

"Not  really.” 

"Letting  the  air  out  of  the  spare  was 
a stroke  of  genius,  kitten.  Are  all  wom- 
en devious?” 

"I  don’t  know  about  all  women.  I only 
know  about  me.” 

The  road  curved  again  and  flattened 
out.  In  the  distance,  in  the  clear  grey 
dusk,  they  saw  the  house,  the  roof  at 
its  familiar  crazy  angle. 

"Okay,  kitten,”  he  said.  "We  make 
merry  and  laugh  like  everything.” 

He  bleated  a fast  rhythm  on  the  horn. 
Shave  and  a haircut.  He  slewed  into 
the  parking  space  and  cut  the  motor. 
She  gave  him  one  quick  warm  smile  be- 
fore getting  out. 

"Jerry!”  they  called. 

He  blatted  the  horn  again.  "Jerry! 
Come  out,  come  out,  wherever  you  are !” 

"Jerry,  darling!”  she  called. 

He  had  left  the  house  open.  They 
walked  a mile  down  the  beach.  No  Jer- 
ry. They  walked  a half  mile  in  the  oth- 
er direction  and  then  it  was  too  late  to 
go  farther.  She  had  found  the  crumpled 
watercolor  and  had  examined  it  criti- 
cally. 

"Not  very  good,  eh  ?”  he  said. 

"Never  very  good,  dearest.  Never. 
There’s  something  cramped  and  little 
about  his  soul.  It  comes  out  when  he 
tries  to  do  this  sort  of  thing.” 

It  was  full  night.  Still  no  Jerry.  The 
night  was  cool  and  the  driftwood  burned 
in  the  hearth.  He  did  not  come  back. 
She  cooked  quickly  and  with  compe- 
tence, and  they  ate.  He  helped  her  clean 
up.  When  by  accident  their  shoulders 
touched  in  the  small  kitchen  she  leaned 
heavily  again.st  him  for  a moment,  turn- 
ing away  as  he  reached  for  her. 

She  had  him  light  the  other  lamps, 
even  put  a Coleman  lantern  outside 
where  its  hard  brilliance  made  deep 
shadows  across  the  sand. 


"He  didn’t  drown,”  she  said,  "unle-ss 
he  went  in  wearing  his  new  slacks  and 
shirt.  And  Jerry  is  a man  who  would 
drown  neatly  if  at  all.” 

"It’s  a lonesome  country  back  of 
here.  Maybe  he  got  lo.st.” 

"That  doesn’t  sound  right  either.  I 
don’t  understand  it.  If  Jerry  is  any- 
thing he’s  predictable.  Everything  ac- 
cording to  plan  and  according  to  sched- 
ule. Ugh!” 

"Poor  darling,”  he  said  softly. 

She  sat  on  the  cot  under  the  windows. 
He  stood  by  the  fire,  his  elbow  on  the 
mantel,  the  dead  pipe  in  his  hand.  She 
looked  at  him.  He  slowly  and  carefully 
put  the  pipe  on  the  mantel  and  looked  at 
her.  Slowly  her  head  drooped  as  though 
it  had  become  too  heavy  for  her.  He  .saw 
the  swelling  of  her  lips  and  he  took  a 
slow  step  toward  her. 

"No!”  she  said.  "Not  here.  Please!” 

But  her  head  remained  heavy  and  .she 
kept  looking  at  him.  He  took  another 
step  toward  her. 

Outside,  the  harsh  radiance  of  the 
lantern  was  a dot  of  light  on  the  long 
coast.  The  sea,  strengthening,  moved 
slowly  against  the  sand.  A log  collapsed 
on  the  hearth  and  for  a time  the  embers 
pulsed  red. 

Jerry  was  pulled  along  the  corridor. 
He  tried  to  set  his  heels.  They  slid  on 
the  opalescent  floor.  For  the  first  few 
seconds  there  was  the  clear  idea  of  be- 
ing pulled  along  the  beach  and  then  that 
was  lost. 

"Hey!”  he  said.  "Hey.'” 

A man  pulled  by  his  wrist  can  at- 
tempt to  twist  free.  A man  pushed  from 
behind  can  attempt  to  turn  away  from 
the  thrust.  But  he  was  being  pulled 
along  without  being  touched. 

Jerry  Raymond  detested  physical  vio- 
lence above  all  else.  He  treasured  his 
dignity  and  his  rights  as  a citizen.  The 
wonder  of  there  being  this  lighted  cor- 
ridor beyond  the  odd  shadow  was  lost 
in  the  anger  that  he  felt. 

"Leave  me  go!”  he  squealed,  revert- 
ing to  childish  spite.  "Leave  go !” 

He  tried  to  sit  down.  If  he  had  man- 
aged it  he  would  probably  have 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  21 


drummed  his  heels  on  the  floor  and 
sucked  his  knuckles.  But  the  pressure 
didn’t  admit  of  any  sitting.  All  he  could 
do  was  set  his  feet  and  slide.  The  man 
walking  ahead  of  him  was  naked  except 
for  an  abbreviated,  lemon-yellow  kilt, 
pouched  on  either  side  with  pockets  that 
swung  as  though  they  contained  items 
of  considerable  weight. 

Jerry  Raymond  decided  to  cat-jh  up 
with  that  man  and  grab  his  shoulder 
and  swing  him  around.  He  trotted  for- 
ward and  found  that  he  could  not  ex- 
ceed his  predetermined  pace. 

“Let  me  out  of  here,"  he  bawled. 
“Hey !’’ 

His  voice  was  deadened  by  the  corri- 
dor. Anger  was  slowly  overlaid  with 
dread.  His  teeth  chattered  and  his  arm- 
pits  ran  moisture  and  his  legs  trembled. 

The  interminable  journey  continued. 
“They’re  going  to  kill  me !’’  he  screamed. 
That  scream  was  directed  at  his  per- 
sonal gods,  at  the  president  of  the  chem- 
ical company  in  Gulf  City,  at  the  FBI, 
at  Fran,  at  the  Governor  of  the  State 
and  at  his  own  mother  who  had  been 
dead  for  over  eleven  years. 

None  of  the  parties  so  addressed 
heard  the  cry  for  help. 

***** 

SHE  leaped  from  deep  sleep  to  full 
consciousness  in  one  bound.  Through 
the  open  doorway  of  the  bedroom  Fran 
Raymond  saw  Quinn  French  sprawled 
on  the  couch,  heard  the  deep  rhythm  of 
his  breathing.  Even  in  her  panic  she 
found  it  possible  to  like  the  look  of  him. 
But  Jerry  was  not  here.  He  had  not 


returned.  When  she  made  cei'tain  of 
that  fact  she  came  back  in  and  sat  down, 
weak-kneed. 

Quinn  sat  up  and  stretche'd.  “He  isn’t 
back,  eh?’’ 

“No.  I’m  frightened,  Quinn.’’ 

“And  I’m  starved.  Come  on,  cookie. 
Start  rattling  pots  and  pans  out  there. 
And  don’t  look.  I’m  going  to  take  a fast 
dip.’’ 

They  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  small 
table  for  breakfast.  He  lit  two  cigarettes 
when  they  had  finished,  handed  one  of 
them  over  to  her. 

“We’ve  got  to  report  it,  Quinn.  Maybe 
we  should  have  reported  it  last  night.’’ 
“Honey,  how  many  people  have  wan- 
dered by  here  since  you  and  Jerry  have 
been  living  here?’’ 

“Why — no  one!” 

“Are  you  beginning  to  get  the  idea?” 
“What  are  you  trying  to  say,  Quinn?” 
He  shrugged.  “Jerry  wandered  off. 
Okay.  Nobody  knows  when,  do  they?  So 
why  worry?  You  can  run  in  for  groceries 
every  few  days  and  work  him  into  the 
conversation.  Martha  won’t  get  here  for 
four  days.  Old  Jerry  wandered  off  the 
night  before  Martha  arrived.” 

She  shivered.  “No.  We  can’t  do  that, 
Quinn.” 

“Okay.  Fill  the  area  up  with  cops.” 
“But  if  he  died  or  something  and  they 
find  him  they’ll  know  that  he  was  gone 
longer  than  that.” 

“There’s  risks  to  everything  pleasant, 
honey  bun.” 

“Quinn,  I can’t — ” 

“Sorry,  baby,  I guessed  wrong.  I 

ITum  page] 


" nerved 

STOMACH 


VMi«n  heMtacbehits,  do  as  mtUloQS  do. 
Tako  BroiBo^itser  right  awajr  for  fast 
help.  Not  only  for  the  paiaofbeadacho 
bat  also  for  the  opset  stofnacb  and 
jompy  nerves  that  often  go  with  it. 

Browo-Seltzw  offorvesoes  with  »pM~ 
eecewd  aoticn,  ready  to  go  to  woric  at 


ODoe  to  fight  headache  throe  ways. 
Caotaon:  Use  only  as  direetod. 

Try  Bromo-Saltzar.  Ton  most  be 
satisfied  or  yoor  money  back  i 
G«t  Bromo*Sattzer  at  yoar  drag-etfro 
foont^  or  ooanter  today.  A predoct 
of  the  Bmereon  Drog  Co.  since  U8T. 


BROMO  • SELTZER 


22  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


thought  you  had  nerve.” 

“Well — all  right,  Quinn.  But  if  there’s 
trouble  you’ll  stand  by  me?” 

“What  did  you  expect?” 

***** 

The  horror  of  it  was  that  nobody 
seemed  to  notice  him.  It  was,  a table 
made  of  cool  metal,  so  curved  that  his 
head  and  feet  were  lower  than  his  mid- 
dle. It  gave  him  a vulnerable  feeling.  He 
could  not  forget  the  inhuman  sti-ength 
of  the  man  who  had  placed  him  on  the 
table,  shoved  his  feet  into  the  stirrups, 
his  arms  into  the  hinged  tubes  that  now 
clamped  them  firmly  from  wrist  to  el- 
bow. 

Of  course  it  was  some  kind  of  psy- 
chology they  were  using.  The  childish 
business  of  pretending  to  be  too  busy  to 
pay  any  attention  to  him.  After  the  bite 
of  the  needle  in  the  side  of  his  throat 
most  of  the  discomfort  went  away.  Of 
could  he  could  not  roll  his  head  from 
side  to  side.  He  could  not  even  control 
his  breathing  or  swallow  or  make  a 
sound. 

He  tried  to  think.  It  was  a big  room. 
He  got  that  impression  during  those 
violent  seconds  when  he  had  been  placed 
on  the  table.  The  equipment  was  strange. 
.He  could  see  a little  of  it  at  his  left. 
Hinged  arms  like  the  things  dentists 
had,  only  too  big,  of  course.  More  psy- 
chology. Make  him  think  that  they  were 
going  to  cut  him  up. 

It  would  all  be  over  as  soon  as  he  ex- 
plained that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  top  secret  work  at  the  chemical  com- 
pany. They  could  check  easily. 

He  could  hear  them  moving  around. 
In  a small  mirror-like  surface  of  one  of 
the  elbow  joints  almost  above  him  he 
could  see  the  fattened  distorted  image 
of  his  face — but  nothing  else. 

He  realized  with  shame  that  he  had 
acted  like  a child  when  that — that  force 
had  pulled  him  through  the  upright 
into  the  glowing  corridor.  Well,  who 
wouldn’t?  Right  on  a stretch  of  deserted 
beach! 

Jerry  wished  they’d  hurry  up  and 
start  tile  questions. 

Almost  as  though  in  answer  to  bis 


wish  a hand  reached  across  his  face  and 
pulled  a piece  of  equipment  forward  sc 
that  it  was  over  his  face.  It  was  a bowl- 
like object  lined  with  round  objects  like 
lenses.  It  was  lowered  carefully  and 
centered.  There  was  a sharp  metallic 
click  fi’om  the  apparatus  and  then  it  was 
lifted  and  swung  back  out  of  the  way. 

He  grinned  inside  his  mind.  “A  thing  • 
like  that  isn’t  going  to  bother  me,”  he 
thought.  , 

They  were  talking  to  each  other,  sev-  ^ 
eral  of  them.  He  puzzled  over  the 
sounds.  The  language  was  thick  with 
R and  L sounds,  with  the  vowels  given 
a guttural  coughing  emphasis.  Not  Rus- 
sian— he’d  heard  Russian — ^though  it 
might  be  a Russian  dialect.  It  sounded 
the  way  he  thought  Arabic  must  sound 
without  ever  having  heard  any. 

They  adjusted  something  on  the  head 
of  the  table,  on  either  side  of  him,  close 
to  his  ears.  The  sudden  blue  light  daz- 
zled him.  He  blinked,  the  only  voluntary 
physical  movement  left  to  him.  In  the 
dim  backwoods  of  his  mind  a child  was 
playing  on  the  wooden  steps  of  a porch 
in  Youngstown,  Ohio. 

The  child’s  impressions  came  to  him 
and  he  realized  with  sudden  shock  that 
this  child  was  himself.  Yet  he  could  not 
halt  the  progress  of  recall  and  it  was  al- 
most total  recall,  bringing  back  even 
such  details  as  the  bars  of  the  crib,  the 
flaw  in  the  windowpane,  the  soiled  pink 
rabbit  with  the  ear  missing. 

They  were  touching  his  head.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  his  image  in  the 
polished  elbow.  No,  it  was  some  sort  of 
trick.  They  couldn’t  do  that!  They 
couldn’t  cut  back  that  great  flap  of  scalp 
while  he  was  conscious.  Then  he  felt  the  ^ 
tiny  teeth  and  saw  the  great  circle  of 
bone  cut  free,  saw  it  pulled  gently  away, 
baring  the  moist  greyness. 

Silently  he  screamed  and  screamed. 

The  ovoid  black  mass,  jellyfish  slick, 
was  fastened  over  the  naked  brain  and 
the  silver  wire  ran  through  it,  winding 
slowly  on  the  spindle.  The  fat  black  little 
machine  chirped  and  clucked  and  clat- 
tered and  memory  went  on  despite  his 
every  effort  to  turn  his  mind  to  other 
things. 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  23 


Panic  was  a thing  that  ran  with 
frightened  pattering  feet  around  and 
around  the  walls  of  his  mind.  He  could 
neither  see  nor  feel  the  others  who,  with 
quick  skill,  flayed  him  quite  completely, 
fitted  his  body  into  a rubber-like  sack, 
tight  around  the  throat,  filled  with 
warm  circulating  saline  solution. 

They  did  the  head  last  and  by  that 
time  Jerry  Raymond  was  beyond  focus- 
ing on  his  reflection  in  the  mirrored 
surface  above  him.  All  he  knew'  was  that 
suddenly  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
close  his  ayes. 

The  pump  tubes  were  inserted  in  nos- 
trils and  the  mouth  was  sealed.  They  re- 
moved the  rubberized  sack  and  placed 
him  in  one  of  the  deep  vats  that  lined 
the  far  end  of  the  room.  The  liquid  was 
dark  and  settled  unknowing  to  the  bot- 
tom; The  shining  wire  emerged  end- 
lessly from  the  surface  of  the  dark  fluid 
and  the  pump  tubes  pulsed  in  the  ca- 
dence of  breathing  where  they  entered 
the  fluid. 

Down  in  the  unknown  wetness  the 
soul  of  Jerry  Raymond  screamed  while 
he  remembered  and  remembered  and  re- 
membered, hearing  no  longer  the  busy 
chirping  and  clucking  of  the  thing  that 
sucked  at  his  brain. 

The  technician  pressure-hosed  the 
skin,  dried  it  under  warm  air  and 
walked  out  with  it  over  his  arm.  It 
looked  like  a Halloween  suit  that  had 
been  made  a bit  too  cleverly. 


CHAPTER  III 
Scream 


Fran  and  Quinn  French  were 
stretched  out  on  the  sand  in  the 
full  heat  of  the  noon  sun.  Quinn’s  brown 
shoulders  glistened  with  sv/eat  and  from 
time  to  time  Fran  carefully  greased  her 
long  slim  legs. 

■The  sun  softened  and  melted  some  of 
the  tension  and  apprehension  that  was 
in  her.  “Martha  arrives  this  morning,” 
she  said. 


"You  say  that  the  same  way  you'd 
say  the  world  comes  to  an  end  in  the 
morning.” 

“Well— doesn’t  it?” 

“Good  girl!” 

“Quinn,  sometimes  you  sound  as 
though  you  were  trying  to  be  all  clipped 
and  British.  What  sort  of  a pose  is 
that?” 

She  saw  the  annoyance  on  his  face  as 
he  propped  himself  up  on  one  elbow. 
“Now  we  start  to  get  critical,  do  we? 
A plan  to  make  parting  easier?” 

“I  just  wondered  why  you  did  it,” 
she  pouted.  “I’d  think  you’d  want  to 
know  about  mannerisms  that  make  you 
sound — well,  a little  phony.” 

His  eyes  were  cool  as  he  smiled  at  her. 
“We’re  a couple  of  phonies,  you  and  I, 
my  love.  You  picture  y<  urself  as  a splen- 
did warm  passionate  woman,  a victim  of 
your  own  warmth.  Wise  up,  honey. 
You’re  as  selfish  as  they  come.” 

“You’re  the  type  to  end  this  in  ? dirty 
way,  aren’t  you,  darling.” 

She  sat  up.  He  reached  up  lazily  and 
slapped  her  hard.  “Keep  a polite  tongue 
in  your  pretty  mouth,  trollop.” 

’The  tears  of  anger  squeezed  out  of 
her  eyes.  “You — you — ” 

He  looked  beyond  her.  His  eyes  wid- 
ened. He  said,  “Get  yourself  in  hand, 
Fran.  Here  comes  trouble.” 

She  knuckled  the  tears  away  with  a 
quick  gesture,  adjusted  a smile  and 
rolled  over.  Jerry  Raymond  was  coming 
down  the  beach  toward  them. 

She  jumped  up  quickly  and  ran  to 
him,  her  arms  outstretched,  genuinely 
glad  to  see  him.  “Jerry!  Oh,  Jerry, 
where  have  you  been?  I’ve  been  half 
crazy!” 

He  fended  her  off.  “Watch  it,  now! 
I don’t  want  that  grease  on  my  shirt.” 
“We  just  didn’t  know,”  Quinn  said, 
“w'hether  to  turn  it  into  police  business 
or  just  wait  for  you.  I had  a hunch  you 
knew  what  you  were  doing.  Now  I’m 
glad  we  didn’t  jump  the  gun.” 

“Where  did  you  go?” 

Massio  smiled  at  her  and  glanced  at 
Quinn.  The  memories  of  Jerry  had  been 
just  slightly  vague  as  far  as  visualiza- 
tions of  form  were  concerned  and  very 


24  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


clear,  in  so  far  as  color  was  involved.  , 
He  said,  "Sonaetimes  you  have  to  be 
by  yourself.  When  there  are  things  to 
think  over.  You  know  how  it  is.”  He 
reached  very  cautiously  toward  their 
minds,  finding  the  expected  defenseless- 
ness, desiring  not  to  alarm  them.  He 
read  the  guilt,  their  anger  at  each  other. 
Fran’s  gladness  to  have  him  back, 
Quinn’s  satisfaction  that  it  was  all  wind- 
ing up  so  neatly. 

"Well,”  Fran  said,  “if  you  want  to  be 
mysterious  it’s  all  right  with  me.  I’m 
just  glad  to  have  you  back.  Quinn,  will 
you  mix  the  drinks,  please.  This  begins 
to  look  like  a celebration.” 

Massio  took  a deep  breath  of  the  alien 
air,  finding  it  good  after  so  long  a time 
of  being  inside  the  Center  buildings. 
These  primitives  gave  him  amusement. 
They  were  so  tangled  up  in  the  rights 
and  wrongs  of  their  social  customs. 
Emotional  involvement  was  at  such  a 
frenetic  peak. 

He  studied  the  look  of  the  sea  and  sky. 
It  could  be  the  sky  of  Strada. 

Fran,  standing  close  beside  him,  said 
softly,  "Darling,  wherever  you  went  it 
must  have  done  you  good.  You  seem 
more  relaxed — changed.” 

"Do  I?  Maybe  I’m  less  nervous,  Fran.” 
“Can  you  stay  this  way?” 

Once  again  he  probed  a cautious  bit 
deeper.  She  frowned  and  put  the  back 
of  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

They  had  observed  carefully,  he 
thought.  This  girl  was  built  very  much 
like  Faven.  Facial  alterations  would  not 
have  to  be  extreme.  And  this  time  it 
could  be  done  much  more  quickly  be- 
cause the  technicians  had  satisfied  them- 
selves, using  Jerry  as  a specimen,  that 
there  was  no  basic  difference  in  muscu- 
lature, cutaneous  characteristics,  nerve 
network. 

It  was  just  that  these  Earthmen  had 
realized  less  of  their  potential  and  were 
able  to  utilize  only  a fraction  of  muscle 
power  and  electro-chemical  neuron 
force.  And  the  big  one  was  near  enough 
to  the  appearance  of  Amro  to  make  it 
a simple  substitution. 

He  looked  along  the  deserted  shore 
and  felt  deep  excitement.  This  planet 


had  room.  And  it  had  a peculiar  avail- 
ability. The  League  would  have  a sad 
and  sudden  surprise  when  full  utiliza- 
tion of  this  planet  was  made. 

Quinn  brought  back  the  shaker  and 
they  sat  in  the  sand  and  made  conversa- 
tion. Massio  grinned  inwardly  at  the 
hate  the  other  two  felt  and  concealed 
from  each  other  and  from  him.  The  test 
that  the  cautious  Lofta  had  insisted  on 
was  going  well.  Lofta  had  wanted  to 
make  absolutely  certain  that  these 
Earthmen  had  no  other  means  of  identi- 
fication than  the  evidence  of  their  eyes 
and  ears. 

When  he  was  satisfied  that  they  ac- 
cepted him  as  Jerry  Raymond  without 
reservation  Massio  stood  up  and  sent  a 
clear  mental  signal  to  the  agent  tech- 
nicians who  waited  to  activate  the  dark 
doorway  between  two  worlds. 

The  shadow,  erect  and  black,  sprang 
into  being.  "What  the  hell  is  that?" 
Quinn  gasped. 

Massio  reached  over,  clamped 
Quinn  by  the  back  of  the  neck, 
lifted  him  and  hurled  him,  javelin 
fashion,  toward  the  doorway.  Quinn 
landed  on  his  feet,  fell  to  his  hands  and 
knees.  He  was  close  enough  to  the  shad- 
ow so  that  when  he  scrambled  up  he  was 
drawn  irrevocably  through  iL  disap- 
pearing from  their  sight. 

Fran  lay  there,  her  face  greenish 
under  the  deep  tan.  “What  are  you?” 
she  whispered. 

He  did  not  want  to  use  hypnotic  con- 
trol of  the  sort  he  had  seen  Amro  use 
on  Faven  after  tricking  her,  because 
there  was  no  way  to  assess  the  mental 
damage  that  might  ensue.  He  picked  her 
up  and  put  her  under  his  arm  and 
walked  to  the  doorway.  She  fought  for 
a moment  and  then  began  to  scream 
tonelessly. 

“Don’t  put  me  in  there,  Jen-y ! Don’t!” 
“It  won’t  hurt  you.” 

"Jerry,  don’t!  I couldn’t  help  it.  He 
made  me  do  it.  Jerry!”  The  last  word 
was  a rising  scream,  cut  off  abruptly  as 
she  was  drawn  through  the  shadow.  It 
clicked  off  as  though  a power  source  had 
been  cut. 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  25 


Massio,  using  Jerry’s  memory,  went 
to  the  house,  changed  to  Jerry’s  swim- 
ming trunks  and  went  down  into  the 
water.  It  felt  good  to  stretch  his  muscles. 
He  cupped  his  hands  and  surged  power- 
fully ahead,  arcing  the  water  up  to  spar- 
kle in  the  sunshine. 

Far  out  dark  bodies  rolled  in  the  sun- 
light. He  altered  his  course  toward 
them,  curious  about  them,  driving  down 
under  water  for  the  last  hundred  feet 
of  approach.  They  were  huge,  four  or 
five  hundred  pounds  apiece,  and  he  saw 
from  the  breathing  holes  on  the  tops  of 
their  heads  that  they  were  mammals. 
As  they  came  up  to  breathe,  they  made 
a rolling  motion  that  pleased  him. 

They  sped  away  from  him  and  he 
moved  in  again,  swimming  parallel  to 
their  course.  He  saw  that  he  could  not 
match  their  top  speed,  but  after  a time 
they  accepted  him.  He  probed  at  the 
beast  mind,  found  nothing  but  sensory 
satisfaction  that  comes  from  a filled 
belly,  the  joy  of  motion. 

He  was  with  them  when  they  attacked 
a small  school  of  sand  sharks  and  found 
in  their  minds  the  message  to  kill,  the 
savage  joy  of  killing. 

When  he  began  to  tire  he  swam  back 
to  the  shore  and  ran  fleetly  at  the  surf- 
line  in  thirty-foot  strides. 

***** 

Though  the  more  public  figures  of  the 
League  managed  to  delude  themselves 
into  thinking  that  they  guided  the  des- 
tinies of  the  League  and  made  the  de- 
cisions affecting  basic  policy,  there  usu- 
ally came  a time  when  they  were  con- 
fronted with  an  ultimatum  from  the 
group  sometimes  known  as  The  Three. 

They  had  no  name  for  their  small 
committee.  They  were  merely  three  per- 
sons who  worked  in  such  obscurity  that 
not  one  of  each  hundred  underground 
agents  of  the  League  knew  of  their 
existence.  Had  there  been  any  point  in 
keeping  records  those  records  would 
show  the  score  of  times  that  a policy 
decision  by  this  group  of  three  had  frus- 
trated the  best  laid  plans  of  the  Center. 
Their  hate  for  the  Center  was  a real 
emotion. 


Dolpha  was  the  oldest.  He  was  a 
granite-faced  man  who  had  slowly  ac- 
cumulated a reputation  as  an  adminis- 
trator on  the  most  distant  planets.  Then 
he  had  apparently  died.  A body  had 
gone  into  the  furnaces  but  it  had  not 
been  Dolpha’s.  During  the  meetings  he 
displayed  a courtly  dignity,  particularly 
to  Renaen. 

She  was  an  old  lady,  as  fragile  as  a 
cameo,  with  a mind  like  the  explosive 
lance  of  a farris.  Her  voice  and  her 
hands  trembled  and  only  Dolpha  knew 
that  during  her  career  as  an  agent,  long 
since  terminated,  she  had  made  a secret 
collection  of  the  photographs  of  those 
Center  officials  whom  she  had  forced  to 
commit  involuntary  suicide. 

That  had  been  her  specialty.  The 
youngest  member,  Kama,  was  potenti- 
ally the  most  powerful  of  the  three — a 
lank  damp-lopking  man  with  coarse  hair 
and  awkward  hands  who  possessed  one 
of  the  finest  conspiratorial  minds  in  the 
entire  League. 

“Suppose  you  summarize,  Kama," 
Dolpha  said. 

“During  the  past  four  months,  ever 
since  the  death  of  Strell,  which  we  sus- 
pect but  have  been  unable  to  prove,  was 
Center  work,  the  Center  has  been  pe- 
culiarly inactive.  This  in  itself  is  cause 
for  grave  alarm. 

“The  easiest  way  to  analyze  it  is  to 
think  of  what  might  cause  us  to  with- 
draw agents  from  active  operations,  pull 
in  our  horns,  so  to  speak,  and  play  a 
waiting  game.  I can  give  two  guesses. 
One — the  development  of  a device  or 
weapon  superior  to  anything  now  exist- 
ing. Two — the  development  of  a secret 
base  from  which  to  use  or  launch  exist- 
ing weapons.” 

“Naturally,"  Dolpha  said,  “I  do  not 
like  the  sound  of  those  two  suppositions. 
Let  us  take  the  first  one.  A new  weapon. 
I am  sorry  but  I cannot  conceive  of 
any  weapon  more  powerful  than  those 
now  possessed  by  both  sides.  It  has  been 
pretty  obvious  for  more  years  than  I 
care  to  count  that  the  only  thing  which 
keeps  us  alive,  both  the  Center  and  the 
League,  is  the  fact  that  we  share  the 
same  geographical  areas,  thus  making 


26  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES, 


it  unfeasible  to  use  major  weapons 
without  suicidal  implications. 

“And  that  single  fact  has  kept  our 
civilization  alive.  Were  we  to  separate 
and  withdraw  to  allotted  planets  each 
side  could  very  readily  destroy  the 
other.  No  new  weapons  are  needed  for 
that.” 

“How  about  a selective  weapon,” 
<iuavered  Renaen,  “that  could  kill  League 
personnel  without  damage  to  Center 
personnel  ?” 

Kama  pursed  his  lips  and  shook  bis 
head.  “No.  As  soon  as  that  started  to 
happen  those  of  us  left  would  release 
the  major  weapons  which  have  no  se- 
lectivity. Their  thinking  is  clearer  than 
that.  I can  see  that  we  are  face  to  face 
with  the  possibility  of  their  having 
founded  a new  base. 

“I  have  been  very  proud  and  satisfied 
with  our  system  of  the  recording  of 
any  space-fiights  which  could  be  as- 
sumed to  be  predominantly  Center 
flights.  During  the  past  year  not  one 
flight  has  taken  off  for  unknown  areas 
and  all  arrivals  have  been  accounted 
for.” 

Dolpha  sighed.  “We  have  never  quite 
caught  up  with  their  science,  Kama. 
Could  they  make  a certain  area  of  one 
planet  impregnable,  withdraw  their  key 
personnel  to  that  area  and  then  Ipt  fly  ?” 

"Not  only  would  we  detect  any  such 
movement  but  I doubt  that  should  a 
planet  cease  to  exist  any  area  would 
remain  unaffected.  Here  is  another  point 
I have  just  thought  of  and  believe  me  it 
does  not  make  me  feel  any  better.  They 
surely  know  that  their  best  method  of 
concealment  of  any  advantage  would  be 
to  continue  their  regular  activities.  And 
yet  they  have  given  us  cause  fcr  sus- 
picion. That  indicates  their  degree  of 
confidence.  Frankly  I am  a bit  afraid. 
It  is  too  bad  because  things  had  been 
going  very  well.” 

Dolpha  said  heavily,  “It  is  unthinkable 
that  this  great  race  might  eventually  be 
subjected  to  the  dictatorship  of  the 
scientific  mind.  We  can  safely  assume 
that  our  civilization  fell  a hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  years  ago  because  men 
of  that  stamp  were  the  leaders. 


“Only  in  the  hands  of  the  League  is 
the  future  of  civilization  safe.  The 
faulty  assumption  was  that  a scientific 
group  and  an  administrative  group 
could  work  together.  Should  we  be  de- 
feated each  one  of  their  petty  little  peo- 
ple will  have  untold  power,  live  in 
palaces,  grind  down  the  populace.” 
“You’re  creating  a very  heavy  breeze,” 
said  Renaen  in  her  trembling  voice,  "and 
not  only  that,  I seem  to  have  heard  a 
rumor  that  you  live  very  well  indeed, 
Dolpha,  in  that  little  retreat  of  yours.” 
Dolpha  coughed  and  Kama  said  quick- 
ly, “I  suggest  that  in  view  of  their  lack 
of  activity  in  objective  operations  wc 
take  the  risk  of  it  being  a trick  and  de- 
tach all  League  agents  from  preventa- 
tive operations  and  assign  them  to  ob- 
jective operations.  With  sulRcient  man- 
power we  may  be  able  to  snatch  someone 
with  key  knowledge  in  this  affair  and 
drain  his  mind. 

"And  just  in  case  we  fail  I suggest 
that  we  contact  the  A-list  of  all  League 
personnel  and  advise  them  to  ready 
themselves  for  basic  flight  procedure. 
We  have  statistically  determined  that 
even  with  maximum  efficiency,  one  in 
ten  on  the  A-list  will  be  spaceborn  in 
time  but  I feel  that  this  is  a necessary 
move.” 

“Meeting  adjourned,”  said  Dolpha. 
“Work  out  the  details.” 

LOFTA,  the  monitor,  was  properly 
subdued  and  respectful  when  he 
entered  the  presence  of  the  Chief  of  the 
Center.  It  was  the  second  time  in  his 
life  that  he  had  been  so  honored.  The 
Chief  was  a smallish  negative-looking 
man. 

"All  right,”  he  said.  “Sit  down  and 
report.” 

“The  three  agents  have  been  properly 
substituted.  They  are  on  a deserted 
stretch  of  coastline  in  the  company  of 
an  Earth  female.  I thought  it  best  not 
to  arrange  substitution  for  her  as  yet 
due  to  the  possibility  of  their  being  cus- 
toms not  covered  by  the  captured  texts. 
Though,  if  you  will  forgive  me  the 
thought,  I quite  fail  to  see  the  necessity 
for  this  extreme  caution.  We  could  move 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  27 


there  in  force  and  there  is  nothing  that 
could  be  brought  against  us  that — ” 

“You  are  too  eager,  Lofta.  There  will 
be  ample  time  for  that  later.  Solve  one 
problem  at  a time.  We  have  made  the 
basic  and  very  important  discovery  of 
a twin  planetary  system  corresponding 
to  our  own,  separated  from  us  only  by 
a symbolic  logician’s  definition  of  re- 
ality. This  is  not  a completely  physical 
and  technical  phenomei.on.  It  is  a philo- 
sophical phenomenon. 

“In  simplest  terms  the  formula  can  be 
expressed  this  way:  The  twin  world 
exists  because  any  definitive  explanation 
of  reality  presupposes  alternate  real- 
ities. Thus  the  doorway  was  achieved  by 
the  creation  of  unreality.  Call  it  nega- 
tive matter  if  you  will.  A sphere  where 
there  is  no  reality  must,  through  the 
application  of  the  basic  formula,  be  a 
bridge  between  realities.  The  bridge  had 
been  achieved  but  there  is  much  that  we 
don’t  know. 

“Are  we  in  turn  available  to  another 
reality  on  the  opposite  ‘side’  of  us.  And 
when  equipment  is  transported  to  Earth 
can  we  create  once  again  a negative 
matter  bridge  to  another  reality  ‘beyond’ 
their  world.  Also  are  other  planets  sub- 
ject to  this  same  bridging  technique? 

“All  we  can  safely  say  is  that  it  is  a 
very  sound  assumption  that  our  remote 
ancestors  found  this  bridge  and  popu- 
lated Earth  or  the  converse.  We  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  they  on  Earth 
did  not  have  the  great  knowledge  in 
their  forgotten  past.  To  get  back  to  the 
point,  Lofta,  the  very  meagerness  of  our 
knowledge  requires  careful  and  cautious 
procedure. 

“Would  there  be  any  effect  on  that 
world  of  the  sudden  elimination  of  this 
one?  Can  our  more  complicated  equip- 
ment, once  transposed  to  that  world,  be 
made  to  function?  Have  we  any  hope  of 
concealing  from  the  League  a method- 
ical emigration  to  that  world? 

“There  are  many  things  to  be  decided 
and  in  this  connection  I do  not  care  to 
have  to  erect  defenses  against  the  peo- 
ple of  Earth,  no  matter  how  primitive 
their  forms  of  attack  may  be.  At  the 
moment  it  is  sufficient  to  know  that  we 


have  alarmed  and  alerted  the  League. 

“In  their  anixety  they  will  make  poor 
moves.  We  shall  take  advantage  of  those 
in  the  usual  way.  I anticipate  that  they 
will  withdraw  agents  from  defensive 
operations.  We  are  prepared  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  that.” 

Lofta  said,  “It’s  a new  world  beyond 
that  doorway.  It  sometimes  seems — ” 
He  stopped  abruptly. 

The  Chief  finished  the  sentence  for 
him.  “ — seems  as  though  we  should  go 
through  the  doorway  and  close  it  after 
us  and  forget  our  responsibilities  here, 
heh?” 

“No,  I didn’t  mean—” 

“But  you  did.  What  is  there  for  us 
here?  A slow  building  of  tension  until 
at  last  we  blow  our  own  heads  off.  Oh, 
we  prattle  about  the  leadership  of 
science  and  the  venality  of  the  adminis- 
trators in  the  League.  All  it  is  in  es- 
sence, Lofta,  is  two  hungry  groups  after 
the  same  meal  only  large  enough  for 
one  group. 

“We  said,  five  thousand  years  ago, 
‘Reach  the  other  planets  of  the  system 
and  there  will  be  enough  for  all.’  So  we 
cut  up  the  planets.  Then  it  was,  ‘Reach 
the  stars.’  The  distant  island  universes, 
the  furthest  galaxies,  the  discovery  of 
an  almost  infinite  number  of  habitable 
planets — ^all  that  was  not  enough.  Why, 
Lofta?  Have  you  ever  wondered  why?” 

“You’re  talking  as  though — as  though 
there  might  be  no  point  in  fighting  for 
what  we  believe  to  be  right.  That  is 
treason.” 

“Treason,  is  it?  To  wonder  why?  I’m 
just  very  tired,  Lofta,  and  a bit  queru- 
lous these  days.  The  fault  is  deep  within 
us.  During  the  periods  of  expansion  it 
did  not  lie  dormant  because  then  space 
and  time  were  the  enemies  to  be  con- 
quered. It  never  lies  dormant,  Lofta. 
'This  is  the  secret  of  our  race.  There 
rrnist  be  an  enemy — always. 

“The  Kalla  and  the  Shen  were  un- 
satisfactory. Their  egocentricity  was  not 
deep  enough.  They  admitted  too  quickly 
that  there  might  be  room  in  the  universe 
for  more  than  one  race.  We’ll  never  ad- 
mit that.  There  must  be  an  enemy!  And 
when  all  other  dutiful  enemies  fail  us 


28  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


through  lack  of  resistance  our  enemy 
becomes  our  brother. 

"Go  now — I talk  too  much.  Here  are 
your  orders.  Move  slowly.  When  you  are 
certain  of  secrecy  in  that  twin  world  I 
will  order  you  to  set  up  a technical 
service  there  and  perform  the  necessary 
tests.  Then  we  shall  build  the  labs  un- 
derground.” 

Lofta  walked  slowly  to  the  tube,  his 
face  thoughtful.  He  stepped  into  the 
carrier,  lay  down  and  pressed  the  series 
of  buttons  for  the  trip  pattern.  The 
curved  lid  closed  quickly  and  the  carrier 
moved  into  the  tube,  gathering  speed. 
The  whine  of  the  wind  came  quietly  to 
his  ears. 

So  lost  was  he  in  thought  over  what 
the  Chief  had  said  that  when  the  carrier 
nudged  gently  to  rest  at  the  Center 
Agent  Station  of  which  he  was  monitor 
he  became  aware  of  his  surroundings 
with  a start  of  surprise. 

The  guards  took  him  into  the  identity 
lab  and  he  submitted  quietly  to  the  re- 
tinagram,  body  heat  analysis,  cerebral 
measurement  mid  reflex  index.  Each 
test  was  graded  as  a series  of  mag- 
netized areas  on  the  test  plate.  At  the 
lab  exit  the  test  plate  was  slipped  along 
with  his  own  permanent  master  plate 
into  the  grader.  The  yellow  light  which 
flashed  indicated  no  slightest  degree  of 
deviation. 

Lofta  went  to  his  own  oflice  and  sat 
with  his  face  in  his  hands  for  quite  a 
long  time. 

Martha  KAYNAN  knew  that  it 
had  been  a bit  stupid  to  accept  the 
Raymonds’  invitation.  She  knew  that 
she  would  have  very  little  in  common 
with  them.  Quinn  French’s  phone  call 
had  come  an  hour  after  she  had  received 
the  wire  from  Fran  Raymond.  Hearing 
Quinn’s  voice  on  the  phone  it  was  al- 
most possible  to  forget  that  he  was  defi- 
nitely an  unwholesome  type. 

But  the  way  things  had  been  going 
lately — maybe  the  trip  would  do  some 
good. 

She  was  a small  girl  with  brown  hair 
that  sometimes  glinted  red  in  the  sun- 
light. Her  eyes  were  a soft  and  smoky 


aqua  and  her  mouth  had  a childish  look. 
A careless  observer  might  think  her  a 
quite  low-pressure  little  girl,  possibly 
a bit  dull.  But  the  careless  observer 
missed  the  lift  of  the  chin,  the  directness 
of  the  eyes,  the  squared  shoulders,  the 
determined  walk. 

There  had  been  a series  of  perfectly 
innocuous  young  men  who  would  make 
fine  husbands — for  someone  else.  Each 
idea  that  this  might  be  love  had  melted 
under  close  scrutiny.  At  one  time  she 
had  thought  it  would  be  Quinn  French. 
But  he  turned  out  to  be  a bit  easy  to 
read.  And  now  she  accepted  the  invita- 
tion because  the  one  who  had  looked 
the  best  of  the  lot  had  suddenly  begun 
to  bore  her. 

She  didn’t  know  what  she  wanted  and 
the  knowledge  at  twenty-six  was  be- 
ginning to  disturb  her.  She  had  a small 
income  and  to  supplement  it  she  mod- 
eled, wrote  ten-cent-a-line  poetry  that 
was  a shade  too  precious  and  reviewed 
the  cinema  for  a quarterly  which  had 
but  recently  acknowledged  the  existence 
of  such  a medium. 

Lately  she  had  found  herself  taking 
stock  too  often.  The  inventory  was  al- 
ways unsatisfactory.  A smallish  girl 
with  a rounded  and  nearly  perfect  fig- 
ure— health  and  fastidiousness  and  a 
knack  of  making  light  conversation. 
The  world  was  full  of  a number  of 
things.  Why  then  for  the  past  three — 
no,  four  years  had  everything  been  so 
absolutely  and  excruciatingly  dtdlf 

And  for  a time  she  had  thought  that 
this  week  on  the  Texas  coast  might  be 
just  as  dull  as  everything  else.  Quinn 
had  picked  her  up  at  the  Harlingen 
Airport  in  his  convertible.  Aside  from 
the  fact  that  his  driving  had  become 
considerably  slower  and  more  sane  she 
could  see  no  difference  in  him.  Maybe 
just  a tiny,  tiny  touch  more  maturity. 
But  after  all  a full  year  had  passed  and 
even  the  Quinn  Frenches  of  this  world 
have  a tendency  to  grow  up. 

When  she  saw  Mrs.  Raymond  she  un- 
derstood a bit  more  of  Quinn’s  affection 
for  this  duo.  Fran  Raymond  was  both 
statuesque  and  exotic.  Her  husband  was 
dark  and  slight  and  not  particularly 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  29 


good  looking.  She  sensed  that  it  was  in- 
tended that  her  role  was  that  of  diverter 
of  the  suspicion  of  Jerry  Raymond.  So 
be  it. 

But  on  this  second  morning,  as  she 
let  the  sun  bake  her,  she  was  conscious 
of  being  intrigued  by  some  sort  of  mys- 
tery involving  the  Raymonds  and  Quinn 
French.  They  acted  as  though  they  had 
some  enormous  secret.  And,  during  the 
first  dinner  at  the  rather  pathetic  little 
shack  they  called  a house  she  had  sensed 
that  they  seemed  almost  to  be  talking  to 
each  other  without  saying  a word.  Of 
course  that  was  absurd.  Maybe  Quinn 
had  known  the  pair  of  them  for  longer 
than  he  had  let  on. 

And  once  over  coffee  Quinn  had 
looked  at  her  while  she  was  wondering 
about  their  relationship  and  as  he  had 
done  so  an  absolutely  frightful  pain  had 
driven  right  through  her  head.  It  had 
made  her  gasp  and  for  some  strange 
reason  Quinn  had  immediately  looked 
quite  guilty.  Maybe  the  fool  was  taking 
up  yogi  or  hypnotism  or  something. 

Anyway  it  was  damn  poor  hospital- 
ity, no  matter  how  you  looked  at  it.  She 
couldn’t  help  but  feel  that  they  were 
wishing  the  week  was  over  and  that 
Martha  Kaynan  would  go  home. 

She  roll^  up  onto  one  elbow  and 
looked  back  up  toward  the  house.  Quinn 
had  most  uncleverly  stuck  the  no.se  of 
the  car  right  into  a sand  dune  when  he 
had  driven  her  to  the  house.  He  was  by 
the  car.  The  chrome  made  bright  glints 
in  the  sun.  She  shaded  her  eyes  just  in 
time  to  see  Quinn  reach  over  casually, 
brush  the  sand  away  from  the  front 
bumper  and  just  as  casually  lift  the 
entire  front  of  the  car  and  swing  it 
over  to  one  side  and  let  it  down. 

Martha  lay  back  on  the  sand  quickly. 
She  told  herself  that  she  hadn’t  seen  any 
such  a thing.  A mirage — or  the  sun  was 
affecting  her  mind. 

When  he  had  gone  she  went  up  quite 
casually  and  examined  the  tire  marks. 
The  results  made  her  feel  extremely 
dizzy.  It  was  then  that  she  heard  the 
voices  of  Fran  and  Jerry  from  inside 
the  house.  They  were  talking  together 
and  Martha  was  immediately  quite  cer- 


tain that  it  was  some  Oriental  tongue. 

Quinn  was  far  down  the  beach.  She 
walked  rapidly  after  him.  When  she 
called  to  him  he  stopped  and  turned. 

“Quinn,”  she  said  firmly.  “I  demand 
to  know  what  this  is  all  about.” 
“About?  All  about  what?” 

“I  thought  I knew  you  pretty  well, 
Quinn.  What  have  you  been  doing  in 
the  past  year?” 

“Nothing  very  unusual.” 

She  put  her  hands  on  her  hips  and 
glared  at  him.  “No?  Where  did  you 
learn  to  make  my  head  hurt  just  by 
staring  at  me  ? That's  twice  you’ve  done 
it  and  I don’t  like  it.  It  feels  like  a nasty 
hand  grubbing  away  inside  my  head. 
And  who  are  these  friends  of  yours? 

“I  heard  them  talking  a foreign  lan- 
guage and  it  wasn’t  any  language  I ever 
heard  before.  And  I saw  you  pick  up  the 
front  end  of  an  automobile  with  one 
hand.  Quinn,  I think  you’ve  been  mess- 
ing around  with  one  of  those  nasty 
thought-control  cults  and  I want  to 
know  all  about  it.  Immediately!" 

Amro  studied  the  girl’s  face.  There 
was  something  so  violent  and  possessive 
about  her  anger  that  he  wanted  to  laugh. 
Those  eyes  were  a most  unusual  shade. 
They’d  give  the  substitution  crews  a lot 
of  trouble  duplicating  them. 

“Baby,  you’d  better  get  out  of  this 
hot  sun,”  he  said.  “It  can  make  you 
imagine  all  sorts  of  things.” 

“The  sun  doesn’t  bother  me  a bit," 
she  said. 

He  watched  her  fall,  then  picked  her 
up  in  his  arms.  As  he  carried  her  into 
the  house  to  put  her  on  the  couch  she 
stirred  and  glared  up  at  him. 

“You  did  that  to  me,  Quinn  French, 
and  don’t  try  to  deny  it.  There’s  some- 
thing queer  about  the  three  of  you.  My 
great  grandmother  used  to  tell  me  about 
people  who  sold  their  souls  to  the  devil. 
What  have  you  done  to  yourself,  Quinn  ?” 
“Try  to  take  a nap,  Martha.  You’re 
tired.  You’re  exhausted.” 

He  saw  the  heaviness  of  her  lids  and 
watched  her  fight  against  it.  But  the 
fight  was  quickly  lost.  In  sleep  she 
looked  more  than  ever  like  a child. 

He  reported  the  incident  to  Faven  and 


30  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


Massio  immediately.  Faven  shrugged. 

Females  are  always  more  intuitive.  I 
! now  Lofta  wants  us  to  keep  her  here. 
But  this  makes  her  dangerous.  A little 
accident,  maybe?” 

“No,”  said  Amro  with  a quick  force 
that  surprised  him. 

Faven  cooed  and  touched  his  cheek. 
“So  he  wants  a little  Earthchild  play- 
thing.” 

“No,  I merely  meant  that  there’s  no 
harm  in  her.  She  couldn’t  possibly  guess 
what  we’re  up  to  or  how  we  got  here. 
There’s  no  doubt  in  her  mind  but  what 
I’m  Quinn  French.  And  by  the  way, 
there’s  one  Earthling  who  bequeathed 
me  a supply  of  very  interesting  memo- 
ries.” 

Faven  smiled.  “We  seem  to  share 
some  of  those,  don’t  we?” 

Massio  said  quietly,  “Jerry  Raymond 
had  it  in  his  mind  to  kill  his  wife  and 
Quinn  French.  I can  detect  the  half- 
formed  impulse.” 

“I  insist,”  Faven  said,  “that  we  get 
rid  of  that  creature  before  she  makes 
genuine  trouble.” 

“You  can  make  that  suggestion  to 
Lofta  through  me,”  Amro  said  stiffly. 
“I’ll  inform  him  of  your  desire  when  I 
report  tonight.” 

Massio  stretched.  “I,  for  one,  like  the 
feeling  of  being  able  to  be  off-guard. 
It  is  the  first  time  in  ten  years  that  it’s 
been  this  way.  The  girl  won’t  bother 
me.  Nothing  can  bother  me  so  long  as 
I don’t  have  to  look  at  you  two  and 
wonder  if  you’re  League  substitutions.” 
An  hour  later  Martha  came  out  onto 
the  beach,  walking  unsteadily.  She 
smiled  at  Quinn.  “Goodness!  I must 
have  had  a touch  of  the  sun.  Anyone 
else  want  a swim?” 

‘T  do,”  Quinn  said.  They  walked  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  water.  Martha  fell 
heavily  and  lay  dazed  for  a moment. 
Quinn  turned  and  saw  Faven  standing 
by  the  house,  an  enigmatic  smile  on  her 
lips. 

“I — I must  be  sick,”  Martha  said 
calmly. 

“No — you’re  not.  Swim  out  with  me.” 
"You’re  angry.  Why?” 


“Be  still  and  swim.” 

A hundred  yards  from  shore  - he 
turned.  In  his  anger  he  had  outdistanced 
her  by  a great  deal.  When  she  came  up 
to  him  her  eyes  were  wide. 

“Heavens,  Quinn!  How  on  earth  de 
you  do  that?  You  make  bow  waves!” 
“You  fell  because  Fran  willed  you  to 
fall.  You’re  right.  It  is  sort  of  a trick.” 
“Why  would  she  do  that  to — oh ! I see. 
Well,  you  can  tell  her  for  me  that  I don’t 
want  anything  to  do  with  you,  Quinn.” 
“Will  you  please  listen  to  me?  Feel 
that?” 

“Of  course,”  she  said  hotly.  “And  it’s 
a dirty  trick.  Just  like  a hot  needle 
stabbing  right  through  my  forehead.” 
“You  don’t  have  any  resistance  at  all 
— none.  But  I have  a hunch  I can  teach 
you  through  visualization.  Think  of 
something  strong — a barrier.” 

“Like  a brick  wall?” 

“Exactly.  Now  pretend  it  is  right  be- 
hind your  eyes  so  that  you’re  seeing  it 
with  the  back  of  your  eyes.  Just  imagine 
a small  area  of  it  and  individualize  the 
bricks.  Identify  them  along  with  the 
cement  between  them.  Make  as  dear  a 
picture  as  you  can  and  think  of  H as 
hard  as  you  can.” 

He  tried  again,  and  felt  a fractional 
resistance,  a faint  rubberiness  before 
the  probe  slid  through.  “I  could  feel  you 
push  against  the  wall,”  she  said,  with 
wonder.  “But  you  got  through.” 

"Try  again — try  harder.  Every  brick 
— the  pores  in  the  bricks.” 

They  floated  in  the  buoyant  water 
and  slowly  she  acquired  the  necessary 
barrier.  It  was  stronger  each  time.  And 
finally  he  knew  that  the  resistance  was 
such  that  the  thrust  necessary  to  get 
through  it  would  surge  into  her  brain 
with  such  force  as  to  permanently  dam- 
age her.  He  explained  that  to  h^. 

“Make  me  insane  just  by — whatever 
it  is  that  you  do?  Well — if  you  think  so, 
please  don’t  try  it.  Now  teach  me  bow 
to  do  that  to  someone  else,  Quinn.” 
“You  can’t  possibly  learn  it.” 

“You  did.” 

“Say  I had  special  aptitude.” 

“How  do  you  know  I don’t?” 

“I  know  you  don’t.  Be  glad  that  I’ve 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  81 


at  least  taught  you  how  to  keep  Faven 
from  knocking  you  down  at  will." 
“Faven ?" 

“A  pet  name.  I mean  to  say  Fran.” 
“I  hope  she  tries  again.  Have  I got 
news  for  her!" 

“Remember,  you  have  to  anticipate 
her  attempt,  otherwise  it’s  no  good.  She 
and  Jerry  and  I keep  the  shields  erected 
at  all  times.  It’s  considered  to  be  bad 
taste  to  try  to  violate  the  privacy  of 
someone’s  mind  unless,  of  course,  con- 
ditions make  it  such  that  that’s  the  only 
way  you  can  converse.” 

He  slowed  to  let  her  catch  up  with 
him.  “'Then  that’s  what  you  were  doing 
the  first  night  I was  here.  Say,  that’s 
only  last  night,  isn’t  it?  What  were  you 
talking  about,  Quinn?” 

“Primitive  women.” 

“Really!  Are  there  some  around 
here  ?” 

“Quite  nearby,”  he  said  softly. 

She  walked  ahead  of  him  up  the  slope 
of  the  beach.  He  could  not  resist  the  im- 
pulse. She  stumbled  and  turned  sharply. 


“See  what  I mean?”  he  said,  grinning. 
“You  have  to  anticipate  it,  or  else  walk 
around  thinking  of  nothing  but  that 
wall.” 


CHAPTER  ly 
Truce 


Throughout  the  planets  there 
was  restlessness  among  the  Stradai. 
Yet  never  before  had  society  achieved 
such  perfect  balance.  With  a two  trillion 
population  base  the  increment  for  each 
year  was  sixteen  point  six  billion  or, 
based  on  average  planet  figures,  a five- 
planet  increment. 

Basic  decontamination  squads  main- 
tained a five-year  jump  on  the  coloniza- 
tion, a fifteen-planet  lead,  with  the  agri- 
cultural groups  and  housing  groups 
moving  in  a year  behind  them.  In- 

{Turn,  page'] 


GOT  LAOMI  BOY  an  check  all  tight,  but  not 
Dry  Scalp.  My,  what  unkempt  hair!  Looks  like  a 
mane  ; ; : and  111  bet  it*s  as  hard  to  comb.  Loose 
dandruff,  too.  He  needs  ^Vaseline*  Hair  Tonic!** 


6e^,,7\ 


IT*f  GREAT!  Try  it!  See  what  a big  difference 
^Vaseline*  Hair  Tonic  makes  in  the  good  looks  of 
yenr  hair.  Just  a few  drops  daily  check  loose  dan* 
druff  and  those  other  annoying  signs  of  Dry  Scalp 
IS!  spruce  up  srour  hair  qui^ly  and  effectively^ 
Contains  no  alcohol  or  other  drying  ingredients. 


^feseline  HAIRTONIC 


Llaten  to  Dft.  CHRISTIAH, 
ttarri&c  JEAN  HlftSHOU, 
oo  CBS  Wedoeodsjr  nigbta 


82  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


dustrial  resources  were  at  constant  full 
utilization  to  provide  not  only  the  neces- 
tAty  maintenance  of  the  old  but  the  com- 
plete supply  of  the  new. 

As  the  wave  of  population  increase 
hit  each  prepared  planet  that  planet 
became  responsible  for  a fixed  percent- 
age of  universal  need,  based  on  what  it 
could  best  produce.  To  achieve  this  or- 
derly result  the  above-ground  organi- 
zations of  both  the  Center  and  the 
League  were  forced  to  work  with  care- 
ful coordination,  depending  on  the  or- 
ders emanating  from  the  home  planet 
of  Strada  which  over  the  long  years  had 
long  ceased  to  maintain  any  form  of 
heavy  industry. 

The  entire  planet  was  the  bureau- 
cratic nerve  center  of  the  continual  ex- 
pansion, a vast  paperwork  capital  where 
even  the  smallest  bureaus  integrated 
their  data  on  calculators  half  as  large 
as  the  entire  space  occupied  by  bureau 
personnel. 

A slight  error  on  the  part  of  Food 
Resources  would  result  in  deficiencies  to 
be  made  up  through  the  shift  of  manu- 
facturing resources  from  other  items.  A 
faulty  tabulation  on  the  part  of  Center 
Research  Facilities  and  a planet  being 
currently  occupied  would  lack  the  fa- 
miliar huge  white  standard  building 
common  to  all  planets. 

One  area  of  careful  cooperation  was 
the  ship  facilities  for  the  actual  migra- 
tions. All  planets  at  full  population  had 
to  be  constantly  bled  for  the  new  ones 
being  set  up.  Any  delay  in  picking  up 
the  overage  meant  a strain  on  the  fa- 
cilities of  the  overburdened  planet  and  a 
necessary  diversion  of  cargo  space  to 
the  planet  to  bring  in  the  needed  items 
from  a planet  with  an  overage. 

With  the  Center  responsible  for  the 
construction  and  maintenance  of  all 
space  carriers  of  the  commercial  type 
and  with  the  League  responsible  for 
routing,  it  was  the  most  closely  meshed 
area  of  cooperation.  The  League,  how- 
ever, had  slowly  taken  over  the  con- 
struction, operation  and  maintenance  of 
the  vast  patrol  fleet. 

To  counteract  this  potential  weapon 
the  Center  had  liberally  interpreted  its 


maintenance  of  commercial  carriers  re- 
sponsibility and  had  slowly  acquired  a 
“maintenance  fleet”  which,  though  os- 
tensibly unwarlike,  matched  the  force  of 
the  patrol  fleet. 

The  Stradai  were  born,  trained  to 
maximum  efficiency  in  the  occupation 
which  most  needed  them  at  the  time  of 
training,  were  permitted  to  set  up  a 
family  unit — monogamous  or  polyga- 
mous, depending  on  the  population  bal- 
ance of  their  home  planet — were  given 
physical  and  mental  care  on  the  basis 
of  periodic  examinations — were  pro- 
vided with  dwelling  space  and  food 
stations — were  given  credits  for  luxury 
items  in  ratio  to  the  performance 
against  the  predetermined  efficiency  in- 
dex in  their  occupations. 

The  working  day  was  five  hours  long 
as  a rule,  varied  to  fit,  when  necessary, 
a longer  or  shorter  rotational  period  of 
the  planet.  Creative  art  in  all  fields  was 
encouraged  but  the  majority  of  the 
Stradai  preferred  during  their  leisure 
hours  to  frequent  the  well-equipped  rec- 
reation halls  for  the  group  games  and 
entertainments  devised  by  the  Center, 
put  into  operation  by  the  League. 

The  new  planets  as  they  were  popu- 
lated became  known  to  their  inhabitants 
by  name — Homeplace,  Blue,  Pleasant 
Home.  But  to  the  central  population 
records  they  were  known  by  a number, 
the  prefix  being  the  year  of  prepara- 
tion and  the  suffix  being  the  year  either 
in  the  past  or  future  when  full  popula- 
tion would  be  reached. 

At  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  door 
to  the  twin  worlds  there  were  562  plan- 
ets, of  which  486  had  reached  full  popu- 
lation, 63  were  in  the  process  of  being 
populated  and  equipped  and  16  were  in 
various  stages  of  preparation. 

No  man  had  visited  them  all  or  even 
half  of  them.  Both  the  Center  and  the 
League  were  aware  that  the  entire  662, 
due  to  patrol  fleet  and  maintenance  fleet 
disposition,  could  be  completely  depopu- 
lated and/or  fragmented  in  an  estimat- 
ed ten-day  period. 

Thus  the  smiling  adjusted  hard-work- 
ing Stradai  of  the  unpolitical  classes 
walked  about  with  that  small  ice-tight 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  33 


kernel  of  fear  deep  in  their  hearts.  The 
very  ground  under  them  was  potential- 
ly unstable  and  the  heavens  could  gout 
a white  fire  that  would  consume  them 
within  the  space  of  a catching  of  the 
breath,  an  upward  glance  of  the  eyes. 

ON  5980-91,  one  of  the  older  plan- 
ets, an  elderly  worker  with  pro- 
duction awards  imprinted  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  his  work  clothes  stood  by  the 
factory  food  station.  He  addressed  ten 
other  workers,  the  entire  factory  staff. 

“Why  aren’t  we  told  more?  Where  did 
my  son  go?  He’s  been  gone  four  years, 
ril  never  see  him  again.  The  Center  took 
him  and  he  wanted  excitement  and  he 
was  glad  to  go.  Have  they  turned  him 
into  an  assassin?  Why?  Where  do  the 
loveliest  young  women  of  this  planet  go? 
Where  are  they  taken?  Are  they  taken 
to  secret  places,  to  be  the  pleasure  of 
the  big  men  in  the  League  and  the  Cen- 
ter? 

“What  is  this  thing  we  make  here? 
Some  think  it  is  a weapon.  / think  it  is  a 
weapon.  Who  is  going  to  use  it?  And 
on  whom?  Why  are  we  so  carefully 
forced,  so  early  in  the  game,  to  swear 
secret  loyalty  to  either  the  Center  or 
the  League  ? I no  longer  have  any  loyal- 
ty to  either.’’ 

The  other  men,  white-lipped,  turned 
uneasily  away.  The  elderly  man  stood, 
waiting.  At  last,  high  in  the  wall,  the 
brass  voice  of  the  speaker  said,  “Mara- 
na  Seventy-nine  C point  One,  report  at 
once  to  BuPers.  Report  at  once.’’ 

He  turned  and  walked  out.  The  gong 
sounded  the  end  of  the  short  rest  peri- 
od. The  others  went  back  to  work  with- 
out looking  directly  at  each  other.  In  the 
late  afternoon  a young  worker  reported 
and  took  the  place  of  the  old  man. 

When  they  reported  the  next  morn- 
ing the  few  personal  items  that  the  old 
man  had  kept  in  the  work  bench  drawer 
under  the  bank  of  lights  that  he  had 
watched  for  thirty  years  were  gone.  No 
one  asked  who  had  taken  them.  There 
was  no  need  for  that. 

The  workers  in  the  factory  felt  a cer- 
tain pride  in  being  allied  with  the  Cen- 
ter. After  discreet  and  subtle  question- 


ing they  found  that  the  young  worker 
was  also  one  of  them.  Tension  relaxed 
and  within  a few  weeks  the  old  man 
was  forgotten. 

♦ * « « * 

The  small  unimportant-looking  Chief 
of  the  Center  maneuvered  his  tiny  ship 
toward  the  asteroid  with  the  ease  of  long 
practise.  The  asteroid  was  a minute 
million-ton  chunk  of  black  rock,  selected 
originally  because  it  was  firm  in  its  or- 
bit, readily  predictable,  yet  without  mo- 
tion on  its  own  axis. 

He  brought  his  speed  in  relation  to 
the  asteroid  to  nearly  zero,  guided  the 
ship  slowly  into  the  circular  mouth  of 
the  tunnel,  keeping  it  a foot  from  the 
vitrified  floor.  As  it  reached  the  gravi- 
tized  area  the  prow  nosed  down, 
scraped  and  the  small  ship  settled,  rock- 
ing slightly  before  coming  to  rest.  Aft- 
er he  activated  the  port  behind  the  ship 
he  waited  and  watched  the  dial  indicat- 
ing outside  air  pressure  creep  up  to 
normal. 

Wearily  he  climbed  out  of  the  ship, 
opened  the  smaller  port  at  the  deep  end 
of  the  tunnel,  pulled  it  shut  behind  him. 
Drugged  with  exhaustion  he  made  his 
way  to  his  bedroom,  pulled  off  his 
clothes,  stepped  into  the  bath. 

Here  in  the  hollow  interior  of  the 
asteroid  were  all  of  the  fruits  and 
awards  his  position  merited,  the  best  the 
culture  could  provide.  Tart  wines  from 
the  rocky  hills  of  distant  planets.  Quiet, 
peace,  luxury,  service  so  perfect  as  to 
be  barely  noticeable.  A million  hours  of 
music  no  farther  away  than  the  near- 
est wall  selector.  The  golden  girls  of 
Garva  or  the  cat-fragile  women  of  Tsain. 

He  lay  in  the  deep  hot  bath  and  the 
water  swirled  around  him,  washing 
away  some  of  the  ache,  the  tension. 

The  League  knew  of  this  place  and 
undoubtedly  knew  of  his  arrival  to  the 
exact  moment.  And,  knowing  of  it,  some- 
where a trained  hand  would  rest  close  to 
a button  or  switch.  The  asteroid  would 
make  a very  small  puff  of  blue-white 
flame.  But  if  that  were  done  within  one 
second  a few  dozen  sybaritic  retreats 
of  League  leaders  would  disappear  in 


S4  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


like  fashion.  It  was  a form  of  truce  and 
he  had  come  to  accept  it  almost  as  a 
form  of  security. 

The  rush  of  warm  air  absorbed  the 
moisture  from  his  body.  He  went  back 
into  the  bedroom  and  found  that  the 
soiled  clothes  had  disappeared.  Fresh 
ones  were  laid  out  for  him.  He  knew 
that  the  servitors  were  awaiting  his  or- 
ders, that  there  had  been  a great  alert- 
ness among  them  since  the  moment  of 
his  arrival. 

Yet  there  was  restlessness  mingled 
with  the  weariness  and  he  decided  that 
for  a time  they  should  wait. 

He  pushed  a button  recessed  into  the 
top  of  a small  table  and  stood  back, 
naked,  his  arms  crossed,  watching  the 
wide  wall  of  the  bedroom.  It  took  on  a 
misty  look,  shimmered,  and  was  gone. 
As  always  the  utter  blackness  was 
breathtaking,  the  stars  burning  with 
that  fierce  brilliance  so  impossible  to 
describe  to  one  who  never  left  the  at^ 
mospheric  envelope  of  his  home  planet. 

It  took  him  but  a moment  to  orient 
himself  to  this  familiar  sight.  And  he 
found  Strada,  not  harsh  like  the  stars 
but  misted  like  the  other  planets,  so 
small  that  even  were  the  atmosphere 
gone  he  would  have  been  unable  to  pick 
out  the  outlines  of  the  continents. 

The  self-doubt  which  he  had  felt  of 
late  was  new  to  him.  Never  before  had 
he  doubted  his  own  decisions.  Always  he 
had  done  his  work,  hoping  and  planning 
and  dreaming  that  one  day  there  would 
appear  a chance  to  break  the  stalemate, 
to  win  the  first  and  last  victory  over  the 
League.  And  now  the  chance  had  come 
with  this  doorway  into  another  world. 

Why  not  use  it  at  once?  Devise  a clev- 
er plan  of  transporting  vast  numbers  of 
key  Center  personnel  into  the  new 
world.  Enlarge  the  doorway  and  set  up 
others.  Turn  the  other  world  into  an  ar- 
senal. Flood  their  heavens  with  ships  of 
the  Center.  Then,  with  the  first  genuine- 
ly impregnable  fortress  that  had  existed 
for  a dozen  generations,  issue  forth  to 
smash  the  League.  Why  not? 

He  knew  he  had  lied  to  Lofta.  There 
was  no  real  reason  fm.'  great  slowness. 
There  was  every  reason  to  make  haste. 


Who  could  know  what  the  League 
planned? 

And  yet — he  smiled.  The  three  agents, 
Amro,  Massio  and  Faven,  had  reported 
to  him  in  person.  Amro  had  been  their 
spokesman.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his 
career  that  he  had  permitted  direct  con- 
tact with  the  agents.  The  honor  had 
awed  them.  And  yet  through  their  awe 
he  had  sensed  their  pleasure  in  this  new 
world,  this  quiet,  primitive  world. 

The  woman  agent,  Faven,  had  very 
cleverly  insinuated  the  idea  that  Amro 
had  formed  a very  unnecessary  emotion- 
al attachment  for  the  Earthwoman  who 
lived  among  them,  not  suspecting  their 
origin.  And  he  had  seen  Amro’s  anger, 
in  itself  a guarantee  of  the  truth. 

He  looked  off  through  space  at  Strada 
and  whispered  aloud,  “There  is  the 
nerve  center.  There  is  the  real  battle- 
ground. There  is  the  head  of  the  beast. 
Neither  side  will  quite  dare  to  destroy 
it  for  it  is  the  guarantee  of  power  for 
both  the  League  and  the  Center. 

“If  it  were  gone  the  chaos  of  misman- 
agement would  divide  the  planets  into 
tlie  island  empires — warring  empires. 
If  either  the  Center  or  the  League 
should  attempt  to  move  away  from 
Strada,  to  move  the  top  leaders  of  either 
faction,  Strada  would  cease  to  exist.  Our 
only  security  is  in  each  other’s  arm.s. 
Hardly  an  embrace  of  love.’’ 

The  decision  would  have  to  be  made 
and  soon.  There  were  restless  lieuten- 
ants who  would  not  hesitate  at  an  as- 
sassination of  their  own  Chief  if  they 
became  convinced  that  he  was  becoming 
a burden  to  the  Center.  And  indecision 
would  start  them  thinking  along  that 
line. 

He  pushed  the  button  again  and  the 
wall  slowly  took  on  the  look  of  solidity. 
He  faced  the  room  and  said  softly, 
“Awaken  me  in  five  hours.’’ 

The  substance  of  the  bed  folded  up 
around  him  and  the  temperature  of  the 
room  quickly  sank  to  the  exact  degree 
which  he  preferred. 

Though  Kama  of  the  League  had 
no  thought  for  women,  he  had  slow- 
ly and  i^easantly  grown  quite  aware  of 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  36 


«»e  of  the  four  female  guards  who  gave 
him  the  substitution  check  whenever  he 
left  his  working  area,  one  of  the  most 
carefully  guarded  of  all  the  League  in- 
stallations on  Strada. 

For  a time  he  was  merely  subcon- 
sciously aware  that  one  of  the  guards 
smiled  at  him.  And  later  he  singled  her 
out.  She  was  not  tall,  quite  rounded,  not 
really  pretty  in  any  way.  But  Kama 
had  a deep  mistrust  of  Iteauty  in  any 
form.  This  one  had  a way  of  looking  at 
him  that  disturbed  him  and  set  his  mind 
working  in  half-forgotten  patterns. 

Much  to  his  disgust  he  found  himself 
thinking  of  her  during  the  hours  when 
he  should  have  been  giving  all  of  his 
attention  to  the  problem  of  deduction 
which  the  change  in  Center  methods  had 
brought  up. 

Kama  was  oddly  shy  for  all  of  his 
power  as  one  of  the  most  influential, 
though  anonymous,  members  of  The 
Three.  And  so  it  was  another  week  be- 
fore he  brought  himself  to  request  her 
plate,  giving  then  the  somewhat  awk- 
ward excuse  that  he  was  spot-checking 
defensive  operations.  He  fitted  the  plate 
into  the  desk  translator  and  the  tiny 
magnetized  areas  were  transformed 
into  written  information. 

Her  name  was  Maen,  followed  by  the 
usual  index  number  giving  the  code  for 
the  planet  of  birth,  year  of  induction 
into  the  sub-rosa  service  of  the  League, 
intelligence  rating.  He  found  to  his  se- 
cret pleasure  that  she  was  assigned  a 
small  room  of  her  own  in  the  second 
sublevel  under  the  guard  station  to 
which  she  was  attached. 

On  the  next  day  he  called  her  by  name 
and  she  flushed  with  pleasure.  And  that 
evening  she  found  a chance  to  whisper 
to  him  her  room  number  and  a time. 

Two  minutes  after  the  time  she  had 
mentioned,  as  Kama  entered  her  room, 
she  held  the  muzzle  of  the  issue  farris 
over  his  heart  and  pulled  the  trigger. 
Kama  found  time,  even  as  his  life  ex- 
ploded into  nothingness,  to  wonder  pro- 
fessionally how  on  Strada  she  had  man- 
aged to  be  substituted  for  the  genuine 
Maen,  whose  loyalties  naturally  were 
beyond  question. 


She  made  the  routine  hopeless  attempt 
to  escape  and  the  alerted  guard  trapp^ 
her  as  was  the  custom  by  a judicious  use 
of  the  wall  projectors  which  froze  the 
main  motor  nerves.  The  surgeon  on  duty 
studied  the  exact  position  of  the  deadfy 
pellet  imbedded  deep  beside  the  spinal 
cord. 

She  was  wheeled  behind  the  shields 
and  the  surgeon  made  the  usual  hope- 
less attempt  to  guide  the  mechanical 
hands  which  performed  the  operation. 
The  pellet  was  laid  bare  but  as  the  at- 
tempt was  made  to  deactivate  it  it  ex- 
ploded with  a violence  that  bulged  the 
heavy  plates  and  stunned  the  surgeon. 

Had  he  permitted  her  to  regain  the 
power  to  speak  she  would  have  exploded 
the  pellet  by  saying  the  key  word.  Had 
he  attempted  _a  mechanical  means  of 
tapping  memory  the  pellet  would  have 
been  activated. 

As  was  expected,  no  trace  was  dis- 
covered as  to  the  method  by  which  the 
substitution  had  been  arranged.  Her 
cover  had  been  protected  by  a false  mas- 
ter plate  which  covered  the  minute  phys- 
iological differences  that  could  not  be 
duplicated.  All  guards,  following  the  in- 
cident, were  cross-checked  so  merciless- 
ly that  two  of  them,  driven  into  com- 
plete mindlessness,  had  to  be  destr<qred. 
***** 

Martha  Kaynan  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  grey  overcast  day  and  won- 
dered what  had  happened  to  her.  This 
short  vacation  had  been  intended  as  a 
gap  in  her  New  York  activities  which 
of  late  had  become  quite  flavorless.  She 
had  not  anticipated  much  in  the  way 
of  interest  or  pleasure.  But  there  was  a 
strange  spell  on  this  coast.  The  known 
realities  had  faded  and  there  was  an  ex- 
treme clarity  here. 

Some  of  her  self-confidence  was  gone. 
Yesterday  was  the  day  she  had  planned 
to  leave.  And  she  had  sought  them  out, 
particularly  Quinn,  and  had  planned  to 
be  very  firm.  But  she  had  found  herself 
saying  dubiously,  “I  had — planned  to 
leave  today.” 

And  Quinn  had  merely  said,  ‘T  think 
you  will  stay.” 


3«  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


She  had  known  of  course  that  she 
would.  And  she  had  not  questioned  him. 
She  had  not  even  wondered  how  long 
she  would  stay. 

They  were  odd,  the  three  of  them,  and 
being  near  them  had  in  some  unaccount- 
able way  increased  her  perceptivity.  Al- 
most as  though  a deep  racial  Icnowledge, 
buried  for  ten  thousand  years,  was  be- 
ing brought  up  into  the  light  again. 
Sometimes  she  could  taste  their  thoughts 
on  the  fringe  of  her  mind.  Not  the  real 
meaning,  of  course,  but  the  emotions 
behind  the  thoughts. 

Jerry  Raymond  seemed  impatient,  as 
though  he  waited  for  some  great  hap- 
pening, mistrusting  delay.  Fran  Ray- 
mond hated  her.  She  could  feel  that. 
And  Quinn  seemed  to  be  lost  in  .some 
personal  problem  of  his  own,  a weigh- 
ing of  factors.  For  the  three  of  them  it 
seemed  to  Martha  to  be  a time  of  suspen- 
sion. 

And  she  knew  that  on  two  nights  she 
had  been  drugged.  She  wondered  why 
they  had  found  it  necessary  to  do  that 
and  she  had  a desperate  curiosity  as  to 
what  they  had  done  while  she  was  in 
drugged  sleep.  But  oddly  she  could  feel 
no  resentment.  It  was  as  though  tte 
rules  which  pertained  to  these  thr^ 
were  not  the  common  day-by-day  rules 
of  social  behavior  governing  the  rest  of 
mankind. 

She  turned  quickly  as  Quinn  came 
into  the  room.  She  smiled.  “A  day  like 
this  makes  me  feel  like  something  out 
of  Jane  Eyre.” 

“Yes,”  he  said  but  not  before  she  had 
gained  the  clear  and  unmistakable  im- 
pression that  the  name  meant  nothing 
to  him.  There  were  odd  gaps  in  Quinn’s 
memory.  Sometimes,  though  his  speech 
was  colloquial,  without  shade  of  accent, 
she  had  the  curious  feeling  that  Eng- 
lish was  a language  he  had  learned  to 
speak.  And  that  was  silly  because  she 
Imew  that  Quinn  had  been  bom  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

Something  tremendous  had  happened 
to  Quinn  during  the  year  they  had  been 
apart.  And  Martha  knew  that  she  had 
to  find  out  what  it  was  or  spend  the  rest 
of  her  life  wondering.  Whatever  had 


happened  it  had  made  a deep  and  basic' 
change  in  him.  The  Quinn  she  remem- 
bered, though  selfish  and  sensuous  and 
egocentric,  had  a certain  amount  of 
sympathetic  imagination,  and  a touch 
of  warmth. 

The  new  Quinn  French  had  a deep 
ice-cold  ruthlessness  about  him  as 
though  he  had  been  refashioned  for  use 
as  a weapon. 

He  stood  beside  her.  “What  are  the 
three  of  you  waiting  for?”  she  asked. 

He  started  in  surprise.  “Waiting?” 

“Of  course  you  are.  Don’t  try  to  lie  to 
me,  Quinn.” 

“It’s  the  weather  that  makes  you 
think  crazy  things." 

“I  thought  this  yesterday.  And  the 
sun  shone  all  day.” 

He  smiled  at  her  but  his  eyes  were 
aloof.  “Why,  we’re  waiting  for  the 
end  of  the  world.  Hadn’t  you  heard  ?” 
She  said  soberly,  “Maybe  you  are. 
Maybe  you  are.” 

“A  walk  will  do  you  good,  Martha.” 
“Where  are  Fran  and  Jerry?” 
“They’ve  gone  into  Harlingen.” 

They  walked  down  the  beach.  The 
waves  were  higher,  thudding  monot- 
onously against  the  packed  sand.  She 
walked  with  her  head  bent,  her  hands 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  her  tan  slacks. 

“What  do  you  believe  in,  Quinn?”  she 
asked.  “I  mean  about  people.  I’m  not 
asking  it  right.  About  the  rights  of  peo- 
ple, of  the  individual?” 

“The  individual?  What  sort  of  an  in- 
dividual? An  important  one?” 

“Why  ask  that?” 

“An  important  individual  is  perfect- 
ly safe  to  exercise  power  in  any  way 
he  wishes  as  long  as  he  is  able  to  protect 
himself.” 

“And  the  unimportant  individual?” 
Quinn  shrugged.  “The  unimportant 
individual  is  unimportant  and  so  is  any 
discussion  of  his  rights.  He  exists  as  a 
tool  to  be  used  by  the  important  ones.  If 
he  has  ability  the  point  is  to  grab  him 
early  enough  to  give  him  the  right  men- 
tal adjustment  to  your  own  ends  and 
then  he  works  for  you  and  against  the] 
others.” 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  37 


"And  If  he  gete  in  your  way?”  she 
asked. 

He  looked  surprised.  “What  can  you 
do  except  kill  him  ?” 

She  stopped  so  suddenly  that  he  went 
on  alone  for  a few  paces,  turned  and 
stared  back  at  her.  “Do  you  believe  that, 
Quinn  ?” 

He  frowned.  “What  else  is  there  to 
believe  ?” 

She  stamped  her  foot  on  the  sand. 
“I’ve  heard  that  sort  of  talk  before 
from  some  of  the  adolescent  Fascist! 
but  they  say  it  to  make  an  effect.  And 
I’ve  heard  it  from  sarcastic  undergrad- 
uates. But  not  from  an  adult.  Look  at 
me,  Quinn.” 

“I’m  looking.” 

"All  right.  / am  unimportant.  I am 
in  your  way.  I’m  in  a position  to  block 
whatever  it  is  that  you  and  Fran  and 
Jerry  are  planning.  Do  you  kill  me?” 

“I  don’t  understand.” 

"Look  at  me.  I have  the  only  life 
that  I’m  given  to  live.  I have  dreams  and 
hopes — damn  it,  Quinn,  I’m  a person. 
Dead,  I’m  so  many  chemicals.  Do  you 
have  the  right  to  put  an  end  to  me?  Just 
like  that?  Just  because  I’m  unimpor- 
tant?” 

His  smile  was  weak.  “This  is  a pret- 
ty alien  sort  of  philosophy  to  me,  Mar- 
tha.” 

“Alien ! Good  heavens,  it’s  what 
you’ve  been  taught  all  your  life ! What’s 
alien  about  it?” 

He  made  a long  mark  in  the  wet  sand 
with  his  bare  foot.  “Okay,  Martha. 
Suppose  you  have  a society  based  on 
your  ideas.  The  individual  is  imi)ortant. 
How  can  that  society  progress?  No  con- 
flicts are  ever  absolved.  Warring  groups 
have  to  fight  with  words.” 

“And  in  your  brave  society  they  fight 
with  murder?  Oh,  brother!  You’ve  got 
a hole  in  that  argument  I could  steer  the 
Queen  Mary  through.  In  your  society 
you  might  be  okay  for  progress  until 
you  get  a perfect  balance  of  power  be- 
tween two  opposed  groups.  Violence  is 
your  watchword.  What  happens?  The 
two  groups  will  neatly  and  carefully 
wipe  each  other  out  and  your  whole  so- 
ciety in  the  bargain.  Is  that  good?” 


He  didn’t  answer. 

She  said,  “You  didn’t  answer  my  ques- 
tion? If  I should  get  in  your  way  would 
you  kill  me?” 

“I’d  have  to,  wouldn’t  I?”  he  said, 
apparently  amazed  at  the  question. 

“I  think  I’ll  take  this  walk  alone  if 
you  don’t  mind,”  she  said. 

Amro  stood  and  watched  her  go  slow- 
ly up  the  beach.  For  years  the  conflict 
in  his  mind  had  been  one  of  ways  and 
means,  of  increasing  his  effectiveness 
with  the  basic  concept  of  his  position 
in  the  Center  a thing  beyond  argument 
or  conjecture. 

Her  words  had  the  effect  of  attack- 
ing the  foundation  stones  of  his  beliefs 
and  it  gave  him  a disquieting  feeling  of 
confusion.  He  tried  to  tell  himself  that 
this  primitive  society  could  not  presume 
to  teach  an  agent  of  the  Center  any- 
thing. The  Center  would  win.  It  had 
to  win. 

But  could  she  be  right?  When  the  con- 
flict broke  would  it  end  everything?  If 
it  would,  the  very  struggle  itself  became 
a struggle  to  see  whether  the  Center  or 
the  League  would  feel  strong  enough 
to  take  the  first  step  toward  oblivion. 
And  for  one  horrid  moment  he  was  shak- 
en by  the  idea  that  maybe  the  entire 
conflict  was  pointless. 

He  ran  after  her.  She  stopped  and  re- 
garded him  coldly.  “Well?” 

“Martha,  maybe  the  answer  wasn’t 
complete.  I said  that  T would  have  to. 
But  that  is  just  a rule.  Maybe,  when  the 
moment  came,  I’d  be  unable  to  do  it.” 

“This,”  she  said,  “is  a new  high  in 
boy  meets  girl.  Boy  declares  affection  by 
telling  girl  that  maybe  he  couldn’t  kill 
her  if  he  was  supposed  to.  I’m  touched 
by  the  depths  of  your  affection,  darling. 
I might  test  you.” 

“How?” 

“Never  mind.” 

He  thrust  toward  her  mind,  groping 
for  the  test  she  had  in  mind,  but  he  met 
the  firm  resistance  be  had  not  expected. 

She  smiled.  “Maybe  you  shouldn’t 
have  taught  me,  Quinn.  I’m  getting  bet- 
ter at  it.  Truce?”  Once  again  there  was 
the  startling  thought  in  her  mind  that 
the  WOTd  was  foreign  to  him. 


THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


“Yea,”  he  said  uneasily.  “Truce." 
“We  won’t  fight  for  a time.” 

“Oh.  Of  course  not." 


CHAPTER  V 
Song 


The  Chief  awoke  from  nightmare. 

His  body  was  slimed  with  cold 
sweat.  He  felt  shaken  and  old.  The 
dream  had  not  been  good.  They  had 
called  him  and  given  him  a long  knife 
and  sent  him  into  the  darkened  room  to 
kill.  They  had  said,  “It  is  your  only 
chance  for  victory.  It  is  the  only  way 
you  can  win.” 

The  figure  had  stood  defenseless  in 
the  room  and  with  all  his  strength 
he  had  swung  the  knife.  In  the  instant 
before  it  struck,  when  it  was  too  late 
to  divert  the  stroke,  the  lights  had  be- 
come bright  and  he  had  looked  into  his 
own  face.  The  bright  steel  lopped  off  the 
head,  and  the  body,  instead  of  falling, 
walked  with  odd  dignity  out  the  door. 

The  head  on  the  floor,  wearing  his 
own  face,  had  smiled  up  at  him  and 
had  spoken.  In  the  dream  the  words  of 
the  severed  head  had  been  the  answer, 
the  final  and  perfect  answer  which  he 
had  sought  all  his  life.  The  words  made 
the  entire  meaning  of  creation  crystal 
clear.  And  the  words  had  filled  him  with 
horror. 

Now  he  was  awake  and  he  could  not 
remember  the  words. 

He  bathed  again  and  dressed.  He  was 
suddenly  fiercely  hungry  and  he  stated 
his  wants,  knowing  that  the  food  he  best 
loved  was  always  ready,  so  that  no  mat- 
ter what  his  choice  was  it  would  arrive 
within  moments.  To  drink  he  request- 
ed the  tart  mead  of  Garva,  made  from 
the  honey  of  the  great  insects  with 
wingspan  of  ten  feet. 

Those  who  served  him  were  the  gro- 
tesques, the  twisted,  broken,  almost 
mindless  ones.  This  was  a guard  against 
any  substitution  in  his  personal  staff. 
The  wall  speaker  questioned  him 


about  entertainment.  “Send  me  what 
you  will,”  he  said. 

It  was  one  of  the  girls  from  Garva. 
She  entered  with  becoming  modesty  and 
shyness  and  took  one  of  the  cushions 
and  placed  it  on  the  floor.  She  sat  cross- 
legged,  a stringed  instrument  on  her 
lap,  and  when  he  did  not  speak  to  her 
she  began  to  sing  in  a low  sweet  voice. 

It  was  a ballad  of  her  people,  about  a 
slave  who  had  fled  to  the  mountains  and 
made  himself  king,  about  the  delight  he 
had  created  for  himself  in  the  mountain 
castle  until  at  last  a masked  woman  had 
come  to  him.  She  had  pleased  him  and 
the  king,  drunk  with  her  and  with  the 
wine  had  at  last  torn  off  her  mask  to 
find  the  white  and  gleaming  skull  of 
death. 

“Stop!”  he  roai’ed,  striking  the  table 
with  his  fist. 

The  instrument  was  silent  and  her 
eyes  were  wide  with  fright.  He  real- 
ized that  she  could  not  have  known  of 
the  dream  and  for  a moment  he  felt 
shame. 

“Sing  something  else,”  he  asked  gen- 
tly. “Sing  a love  song — a gay  song.  And 
smile  as  you  sing  it.  Sing  it  to  me.” 

His  belly  full  he  slouched  in  the  chair 
and  watched  her  with  heavy-lidded  eyes. 
The  curve  of  brow  and  hollow  at  her 
temple  was  very  lovely.  She  was  young 
and  youth  was  far  behind  him — and  he 
felt  near  at  hand  the  death  that  would 
come.  But  not  tonight. 

The  black  asteroid  moved  in  the  per- 
fect and  geometric  orbit  around  the 
sun  that  shone  on  the  day  side  of  Stra- 
da.  The  girl’s  voice  was  husky  and  bit- 
ter-sweet and,  because  her  training  had 
been  thorough  she  would  not  have 
changed  her  place  at  the  moment  with 
any  Stradian  woman  throughout  all  the 
light-centuries  of  the  civilization. 

“Sing  again  that  ballad  of  the  king,” 
he  ordered. 

Amro  awakened  with  an  abrupt  feel- 
ing of  alarm.  He  lay  still  for  a 
moment,  the  moonlight  slanting  through 
the  window  and  across  his  body.  He 
peeled  away  the  innermost  protective 
layers  of  his  mind  and  felt  as  light  as 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  3» 


the  touch  of  ineect  wings,  the  distant 
flow  of  emotions  that  would  grow  in- 
creasingly harsh  as  he  neared  the  focal 
point. 

He  padded  to  the  door  of  the  room. 
Massio  lay  in  undisturbed  sleep,  not  yet 
aware  of  the  emotional  strain  in  the 
night  air  that  had  awakened  Amro.  He 
pushed  the  screen  door  open  and  stepped 
out  onto  the  cool  sand.  The  breakers 
were  white  froth  in  the  moonlight. 

The  feeling  of  emotional  strain  came 
through  more  clearly.  He  turned  to  the 
left  and  felt  it  fade  as  he  walked,  so  he 
turned  quickly  toward  the  south,  quick- 
ening his  step  as  he  saw  Faven,  tall  in 
the  moonlight,  staring  down  toward  the 
line  of  surf. 

Sixty  feet  away,  directly  in  front  of 
Faven,  Martha  walked  toward  the  surf 
and  even  at  that  distance  Amro  could 
see  the  jerky  uncoordinated  move- 
ments. Her  pajamas  were  a colorless 
paleness  and  her  shoulders  were 
straight.  Even  as  he  watched  she 
reached  the  surf.  A wave  smashed  at  her 
feet,  flooded  halfway  to  her  knees.  The 
next  wave  crashed  full  against  her 
thighs,  driving  her  back  a step. 

He  reached  up  through  the  higher  fre- 
quencies and  found  the  level  on  which 
Faven  was  directing  her  commands.  He 
smashed  back  along  that  channel,  made 
stronger  by  anger.  Faven  put  her  hands 
to  her  throat  and  turned  to  face  him. 

For  a moment  they  fought  thus,  the 
Earthgirl  forgotten.  While  Faven 
fenced  with  quick,  darting  impacts  he 
wielded  the  bludgeon  of  his  mind, 
smashed  down  her  guard,  smashed  her 
to  her  knees  with  a small  whimpering 
sound  in  her  throat. 

Once  he  had  her  helpless  it  did  not 
take  all  of  his  directed  will  to  hold  her 
there.  He  turned  and  saw  Martha  walk- 
ing unsteadily  toward  them,  her  mouth 
slack,  and  for  a moment  he  was  afraid 
that  Faven  had  scoured  clean  the  inside 
of  the  girl-brain  with  the  abrasive  of 
her  will,  leaving  it  childlike. 

He  turned  his  thoughts  completely  to 
Martha  for  a fraction  of  a second,  then 
swept  them  bacl^  to  Faven  just  as  she 
started  to  scramble  to  her  feet.  The  blow 


dropped  her  face  down,  her  arms  and 
legs  spread.  He  Icnew  that  it  had  been 
violent  enough  so  that  the  aftereffects 
would  not  wear  off  for  minutes. 

The  chunk  of  coral  was  half  burled 
in  the  sand. 

He  took  control  of  Martha’s  mind, 
forced  her  to  pick  up  the  coral.  "Now 
you  can  kill  her,”  he  said. 

"No.” 

“Why  not?  She  tried  to  kill  you.” 

"No,  Quinn.  No!" 

He  exerted  a stronger  pressure, 
brought  ner  close  to  Faven,  the  coral 
grasped  in  both  hands,  lifted  high. 

The  coral  slipped  harmlessly  to  the 
side.  Martha  knelt,  her  hands  covering 
her  face,  sobs  harsh  in  her  throat.  Fa- 
ven lifted  herself  to  hands  and  knees. 

"Why  didn’t  she?”  Faven  asked,  ut- 
terly surprised. 

"It’s  something  in  their  minds,”  he 
said  in  his  own  tongue.  "They  can’t  kill. 
Life  is  something  individual  and  sacred 
to  them.  Also,  Faven,  you  might  be  glad 
if  she  had  succeeded.  You  know  the  dis- 
cipline. I am  in  charge.  Why  did  you  try 
to  do  this  thing?” 

"You  weren’t  to  know.  It  was  to  have 
been  an  accident.” 

Faven  got  up  slowly.  The  Earthgirl 
still  knelt  and  wept.  As  quick  as  a dart- 
ing cat,  Faven  snatched  up  the  chunk 
of  coral  and  smashed  it  full  at  the  girl’s 
head.  At  the  last  moment  Amro  tried  to 
divert  it.  Martha  toppled  over  slowly. 
Faven  stood,  her  feet  braced,  a look  of 
defiance  on  her  face.  But  he  had  found 
his  way  into  her  mind  too  many  times 
now  for  her  to  defy  him. 

He  played  with  her  at  first,  letting 
her  think  she  was  holding  him  off, 
watching  the  narrowing  of  her  eyes,  the 
dilation  of  her  nostrils,  the  hard  rise 
and  fall  of  her  breast.  Then  he  struck 
and  moved  back  out  of  her  mind. 

“Amro!”  she  gasped. 

He  laughed,  the  sound  wild  and  high 
in  the  night,  and  struck  again.  He 
lunged  deep  into  the  softness  of  her 
brain,  twisting  the  blow,  reaching  and 
ripping.  He  sensed  her  wild  panic  and 
hammered  at  her  again,  this  time  reach- 
ing the  threshold  of  instinct,  slipping 


40  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


past  it,  ripping  apart  the  very  basis  of 
her,  the  fountainhead  of  individuality. 

The  lean  proud  planes  of  her  face 
softened  and  deteriorated  and  the  mouth 
went  slack  and  the  eyes  went  dull.  She 
stood,  a living  thing  on  the  animal  level, 
but  still  erect.  Delicately  this  time,  be- 
cause he  wanted  the  ultimate  degrada- 
tion without  complete  helplessness,  he 
severed  one  more  strand. 

She  slumped,  apelike,  her  curled 
hands,  hanging  to  her  knees,  then  sagged 
until  she  stood,  her  legs  bowed,  hold- 
ing herself  erect  by  the  pressure  of  her 
knuckles  against  the  sand.  Her  under- 
lip sagged  so  that  the  lower  teeth 
showed. 

She  moved  slowly  toward  him,  shuf- 
fling her  feet.  Martha,  whom  he  had 
thought  dead,  sighed  with  the  utmost 
weariness  and  sat  up,  her  cheek  black 
with  the  color  of  moonlit  blood. 

“Quinn,”  she  said,  “I  dreamed  that — ” 

Faven,  attracted,  animal-like,  by  the 
sound  and  movement,  edged  over,  snuf- 
fling with  curiosity. 

Martha  screamed  with  horror. 
“Franl" 

The  alarmed  animal  scuttled  back, 
settled  on  its  haunches  and  peered  at 
Martha.  Martha  Kaynan  fell  over  in  a 
dead  faint. 

MASSIO,  three  steps  behind  Amro, 
said,  “I  guess  she  planned  to  kill 
the  girl.  I wasn’t  certain  enough  to  tell 
you  about  it.  She  wanted  you  for  her- 
self and  you  were  paying  too  much  at- 
tention to  the  Earthgirl.  What  now?” 
“Take  her  down  the  beach  and  call 
them  and  explain  and  put  her  through 
the  doorway,  Massio.  Be  quick.  I don’t 
want  Martha  to  see  her  again.  I — I lost 
my  head.  Lofta  will  be  annoyed.  She 
was  an  effective  agent.” 

Massio  calmed  the  fears  of  the  ani- 
mal thing  by  speaking  softly  and  sooth- 
ingly. He  moved  close  to  it,  his  hand 
outstretched.  Finally  it  accepted  him  as 
a friend.  It  grasped  his  finger  and  Mas- 
sio walked  it  down  the  beach.  It  chor- 
tled and  chattered  as  it  bounded  along 
beside  him  and  some  of  the  sounds  were 
almost  like  words, 

1 


He  saw  Massio  pause  and  seconds 
later  the  doorway  was  a darker  patch 
against  the  moon  shadows.  The  thing 
was  caught  and  dragged  toward  the  ob- 
long shadow.  The  Isist  he  heard  of  it  was 
the  distant  mewling  sound  it  made  at 
the  loss  of  this  fine  new  friend. 

Amro  picked  the  Earthgirl  up  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  back  to  the  house. 
***** 

Renaen  sat  in  the  usual  meeting  room 
and  said  in  a high  quaver,  “Just  two 
of  us  now,  Dolpha — just  two  of  us.” 

The  old  man  belched  solemnly.  “And  I 
guess  our  questions  are  answered.” 

“You  mean  he  was  wrong  in  thinking 
that  the  Center  had  some  new  thing  to 
use  against  us?” 

“Quite  wrong.  It  was  a clever  move  on 
their  part.  They  duplicated  what  they 
would  do  if  they  had  possessed  such  a 
thing  and  then,  when  we  withdrew 
agents  from  defensive  operations,  which 
was  what  they  hoped  we  would  do,  they 
struck  at  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
men  the  League  has.  No,  they  have  noth- 
ing new.” 

Something  troubled  Renaen.  She 
pursed  her  withered  lips.  “But,  Dolpha, 
that  Center  agent  was  planted,  they  say, 
long  before  the  Center  pulled  in  its 
horns !” 

“How  can  we  be  sure  of  that?” 

“I  guess  you’re  right.  But  we  have 
to  think  of  what  to  do  now.” 

“We  go  back  to  our  usual  methods.  I’ll 
cancel  all  of  the  arrangements  Kama 
made  for  escape  and  set  up  the  usual 
balance  of  offensive  operations.” 

“Is  that  wise?” 

“Kama  was  an  alarmist.  We  can  op- 
erate better  without  him.  Maybe  the 
Center  did  us  a favor.  Now  we  have  to 
discuss  a plan,  a new  plan,  and  I like 
the  sound  of  it.” 

She  fingered  hw  unsteady  chin.  “A 
good  plan?” 

“See  what  you  think.  By  unwritten 
agreement,  the  asteroid  home  of  their 
Chief  cannot  be  harmed.  We  have  stud- 
ied him  for  four  years,  ever  since  the  old 
Chief  was — uh — removed.  One  of  the 
young  ones  has  come  up  with  a plan. 


41 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND 


Their  Chief  uses  a tiny  one-man  craft 
when  he  goes  to  the  asteroid,  but  be 
is  guarded  every  moment  of  the  flight 
by  one  of  their  strongest  ships.  They 
track  him  just  as  carefully  as  we  do. 

"A  perfect  duplicate  of  his  little  craft 
has  been  made.  We  have  had  a substi- 
tute ready  now  for  three  years,  with 
never  a chance  to  arrange  the  substi- 
tution. The  plan  is  to  smuggle  the  sub- 
stitute and  the  duplicate  ship  onto  one 
of  the  big  freighters.  Then  it  depends 
on  timing. 

"The  ship  which  guards  him  on  the 
return  trip  from  the  asteroid  is  too  fast 
for  the  duty.  So  it  lies  on  the  Strada 
side  as  he  comes  in.  Our  freighter  will 
fake  takeoff  trouble  and  cut  between  the 
little  craft  and  the  guard  ship.  They 
won’t  dare  open  up  for  fear  of  harm- 
ing their  own  Chief. 

"Our  best  technicians  will  grapple 
him  and  freeze  him  before  he  realizes 
what  has  gone  wrong  and  then  the  sub- 
stitute will  be  ejected  hard  enough  and 
soon  enough  so  that  he  can  curve  back 
into  the  path  of  observation  by  the 
guard  ship. 

“Then  to  allay  any  suspicion  the 
freighter  will  request  the  assistance  of 
Center  technicians  and  by  that  time 
it  will  be  genuinely  out  of  order.  But 
another  of  ours,  a fast  one,  will  be  close 
enough  to  lay  alongside  and  offer  as- 
sistance. Their  Chief  will  be  moved 
into  the  fast  ship  fast  and  by  the  time 
the  substitution  is  discovered  we’ll  have 
him  safe.’’ 

“Where?’’ 

"Right  here,  Renaen.  Right  here,  of 
course.’’ 


"I  like  it!’’ 

“I  knew  you  would.” 

"We’ll  kill  him?” 

“After  we  find  out  how  much  we  can 
get  from  him.” 

"We  won’t  get  much  from  him.  I 
can  tell  you  that  right  now.” 

"You,  Renaen,  will  have  some  of  the 
pleasure  of  trying.” 

“You  are  a true  friend,  Dolpha.” 

“It  is  more  pleasant  with  just  the  two 
of  us,  isn’t  it?” 

“Indeed  it  is,”  he  said  jovially.  And  he 
thought  how  much  better  it  would  be 
with  only  one. 

A young  agent  announced  his  desire 
to  speak  to  Dolpha  and  was  admitted.  He 
gave  the  traditional  salute.  “Report- 
ing, sir,  that  we  did  not  receive  your 
approval  in  sufficient  time  to  intercept. 
That  is  if  you  have  decided  to  approve. 
Their  Chief  is  now  too  close  to  attempt 
the  operation  safely." 

“It  is  to  be  put  into  effect  when  he 
makes  his  next  trip  out  there.” 

“Very  well,  sir.” 

JAKE  INGRAM  studied  the  girl  who 
sat  on  the  oak  chair  beside  his  cig- 
arette-scarred desk.  He  wore  khakis 
with  sweat  darkened  patches  under  the 
arms  and  across  the  broad  back.  His 
gunbelt  was  hung  on  the  back  of  his 
chair. 

“You  said  your  name  is  Kaynan?” 
“Martha  I^ynan,  lieutenant.” 

He  looked  at  her  oddly  colored  level 
eyes.  A bit  more  here  than  meets  the 
eye.  Nerve  and  intelligence,  probably. 
Nice  and  clean  looking.  Probably  cuddle 

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42  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


and  purr  like  a little  old  kitty-cat  if  the 
mood  was  right.  Atid  if  the  guy  was 
right. 

He  laboriously  forced  such  specula- 
tion out  of  his  mind.  “That’s  quite  a 
lump  you  got  there,  Miss.” 

“it  doesn’t  hurt  now.” 

He  yawned  and  pulled  the  memo  pad 
over  closer  to  his  right  hand,  took  the 
pencil  stub  out  of  the  desk  drawer.  Last 
night  had  been  rough.  Two  of  the  wet- 
backs had  got  into  a cutting  scrape  in 
one  of  the  groves  east  of  town. 
“What’s  your  address  here?” 

“I’m  a house  guest  at  a place  on  the 
beach  south  of  Port  Isabel.  It  was  rent- 
ed by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gerald  Raymond. 
For  six  months,  I believe.” 

“Grey  beat-up  job  about  three  and  a 
half — ^four  miles  south?” 

“That’s  right.” 

“That’s  the  old  Coster  place.  Yeah, 
I remember  hearing  it  was  rented.  Just 
the  three  of  you  out  there?” 

“One  other  guest,  a Mr.  Quinn 
French.  I’ve  known  him  for  about  two 
years.  I’d  never  met  the  Raymonds  be- 
fore.” 

“What  seems  to  be  the  trouble?” 
“Last  night — about  midnight  I guess 
it  was — Mrs.  Raymond  and  I had  a — 
you  could  call  it  a fight,  I guess,  on 
the  beach.  She — hit  me  with  a rock.” 
One  of  Jake  Ingram’s  eyebrows 
crawled  up  toward  his  hair  line.  “Want 
to  swear  out  a warrant?” 

“Oh,  no ! Nothing  like  that.” 

Jake  sighed  and  laid  the  pencil  stub 
down.  “Then  what  do  you  want?” 

“I  want  someone  to  come  out  there 
and — and  look  around  just  to  see  if 
there’s  anything  wrong.”  The  words  be- 
gan to  come  in  a great  fiood.  “I  was 
knocked  out  and  when  I came  to  again 
Quinn  was  there  and  Fran  Raymond 
was  like — like  a monkey.  It  was  horri- 
ble. 

“And  I fainted  and  when  I came  to 
again  she  was  gone  and  neither  Jerry 
nor  Quinn  would  tell  me  where  she  went. 
She  looked  and  acted  insane  and  I don’t 
know  what  they’ve  done  to  her.  I’m 
sure  Quinn  wouldn’t  do  anything  but 
the  three  of  them  have  acted  so  fun- 


ny and  they  can  do  funny  things  to  your 
head  just  by  thinking  at  you.  But  if  you 
think  hard  of  a brick  wall  or  some  sol- 
id thing — ” 

“Hey,  lady!  Hey,  take  is  easy!”  Jake 
said.  “Don’t  get  yourself  all  worked  up. 
Let  us  get  this  straight.  You  think 
something  might  have  happened  to  Mrs. 
Raymond.  Is  that  right?” 

“Yes,  lieutenant.” 

“That's  better.  Calm  and  easy  does  it. 
Now  what  would  you  like  for  me  to  do? 
You  got  a car  here?” 

“Mr.  French’s  car.” 

“Okay,  lady.  I’ll  follow  you  on  back 
out  there  and  we’ll  see  about  this  thump- 
ing people  on  the  head  with  rocks.  About 
all  the  rest  of  that  thinking  of  brick 
walls  stuff — I don’t  want  to  be  out  of 
line  but  maybe  you  need  a rest.” 

She  stood  up.  “I’ll  be  very  grateful, 
lieutenant.  And  please  do  one  other  thing 
for  me.  No  matter  what  I say  or  do, 
please  don’t  leave  me  there.  I want  to 
get  my  suitcases  and  come  back  into 
town  with  you.  I’m — afraid.” 

“Glad  to  do  that,  lady.  Glad  to  help.” 
He  buckled  on  the  gun  belt.  “Shall  we 
go  and  take  a look?” 

The  house  looked  deserted  when  Mar- 
tha drove  Quinn’s  convertible  into  the 
parking  space  beside  it.  The  sedan  was 
there.  The  lieutenant  drove  up  beside 
her  and  they  both  got  out,  clunking  the 
car  doors  shut  behind  them. 

A TALL  black-haired  good-looking 
woman  came  hurrying  out  of  the 
house  toward  them,  two  men  coming 
more  slowly  behind  her.  The  Kaynan 
girl  gave  a little  cry  and  moved  back  but 
the  taller  woman  put  her  arms  around 
the  Kaynan  girl,  half-laughing  and  half- 
crying,  begging  the  Kaynan  girl  to  for- 
give her. 

“Is  this  Mrs.  Raymond?”  Jake  asked. 
“Yes,  it  is,”  Martha  said. 

Jake  scowled  and  tucked  his  thumbs 
inside  the  gunbelt.  He  addressed  him- 
self to  the  two  men.  “Just  what  hap- 
pened out  here  last  night?” 

The  smaller  man  looked  uncomforta- 
We.  “I’m  sorry,  officer.  My  wife  hasn’t 
been  herself  for  some  time.  She’s  recov- 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  48 


ering  now.  But  once  in  a while  there’s 
a lapse.  I don’t  blame  Martha  for  get- 
ting upset.  It  was  my  fault  that  it  hap- 
pened at  all.  I just  didn’t  hear  Fran  get 
out  of  bed.”  He  turned  to  Martha.  "1 
don’t  know  how  to  tell  you  how  sorry  we 
are,  Martha.  It  won’t  happen  again.” 
The  tall  woman  clung  to  Martha,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears. 

Jake  said,  uncomfortably,  “Well,  un- 
less Miss  Kaynan  wants  to  charge  Mrs. 
Raymond,  I don’t  see  how  I come  into 
it  at  all.  You  want  to  get  your  bags 
now.  Miss  Kaynan  ? I’ll  wait  for  you.” 
Mrs.  Raymond  broke  into  fresh  tears. 
“Martha,  honey,  please  don’t  leave  just 
because  this  horrible  thing  happened. 
I’ll  never  forgive  myself,  never!” 

Jake  thought  Miss  Kaynan  looked  a 
little  like  a sleepwalker  as  she  turned 
toward  him  and  smiled  and  said,  “Please 
forget  what  I said  in  town  about  going 
back  with  you  no  matter  what  1 might 
say.  I’ve  just  been  silly  about  this.  You 
can  see  that  Mrs.  Raymond  is  perfectly 
all  right.” 

Jake  Ingram  set  his  jaw.  “No,  lady — 
I made  a promise  and  I’m  sticking  to  it. 
Go  pack  up.  I’ll  wait.”  He  didn’t  like 
the  way  the  girl  looked. 

“Oh,  come  now,  officer!”  Quinn 
French  said.  “Don’t  be  dull  about  this.” 
“I  made  a promise,”  Jake  said. 

. He  was  standing  up  as  he  said  it.  And 
all  of  a sudden  he  was  sitting  down, 
peering  through  his  own  windshield,  the 
speedometer  needle  on  sixty-five,  the 
Port  Isabelle  lighthouse  not  far  ahead. 

The  car  swerved  dangerously  and  he 
brought  it  under  control  and  parked  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  road.  He  had  a bad 
case  of  the  shakes  and  his  head  hurt. 
Once  he  had  blacked  out  years  before 
on  Mexican  tequila.  But  even  then  there 
were  disordered  impressions  in  his  mind 
that  he  couldn’t  quite  sort  out.  Bui  this 
had  been  a clean-cut  thing,  frightening 
in  its  completeness. 

He  lit  a cigarette  with  shaking  fin- 
gers. For  a moment  he  was  firm  in  his 
resolve  to  turn  around  and  head  back 
there. 

No,  better  think  the  sun  had  done  it. 
For  if  they  had  done  it  somehow  the 


most  obvious  thing  in  the  world  would 
be  their  ability  to  do  it  again.  If  they 
could  make  a man  drive  his  own  car 
they  could  make  him  pull  his  own  gun 
and  blow  the  top  of  his  own  head  off. 

He  shrugged.  The  little  lady  had  told 
him  to  go  back  and  leave  her  there. 

The  bottle  in  the  glove  compartment 
was  hot  to  the  touch  and  the  whisky 
was  so  warm  as  to  be  nauseous.  But  he 
choked  down  three  hefty  swallows.  It 
make  him  feel  better — but  not  good. 
His  pride  and  his  confidence  had  come 
always  from  his  strong  body  and  stub- 
born mind.  He  could  trust  in  them.  He 
wondered  if  he  would  ever  feel  really 
good,  really  confident  again. 

He  badly  needed  an  excuse  to  pistol- 
whip  somebody. 

***** 

Quinn  and  Jerry  dragged  a table  out 
into  the  shade  of  the  house  and  they  ate 
there.  Martha  had  no  hunger.  She  stud- 
ied Fran  across  the  table  from  her  with 
the  strange  idea  that  there  was  some- 
thing subtly  wrong.  Everything  had 
gone  wrong. 

She  was  afraid.  And  for  the  first  time 
she  began  to  wonder  if  she  were  losing 
her  mind. 

The  woman  across  the  table  could  not 
possibly  be  the  drooling,  chattering 
thing  from  the  moonlight  beach.  Could 
not  possibly  be — yet  if  she  was  there 
was  something  wrong  in  the  h^d  df 
Martha  Kaynan. 

She  looked  at  Fran’s  hands  and  at  her 
face,  at  the  pattern  of  freckles  the  sun 
had  brought  out.  She  looked  for  the 
freckle  on  the  left  cheek — the  one  she 
had  noticed  the  day  before — the  one 
shaped  oddly  like  an  hour  glass. 

Her  fork  clattered  on  the  edge  of  the 
dish.  “You’re  not  Fran  Raymond!” 
Martha  whispered  aloud.  “Thank  Go<l 
you’re  not!  Because  if  you  should  be 
that  would  mean  I’m  going  mad — and  I 
don’t  want  to  be  mad.  Does  anyone?” 

"Darling!”  Quinn  said.  “You’re  up- 
set. Horribly  upset!  Of  course  that’s 
Fran !" 

“Freckles  don’t  change  overnight, 
Quinn,”  she  said  gayly.  “'Tliey  never  do. 


44  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


And  Fran  is  dead,  isn’t  she?  Who  killed 
her,  Quinn?  Did  you  or  did  Jerry?” 
“Please,  Martha,”  Jerry  said  with  a 
pained  expression. 

SHE  looked  around  at  the  three  of 
them.  Her  eyes  were  wide.  “I  just 
happened  to  think.  Isn’t  this  stupid  of 
me!  Just  as  stupid  as  can  be!  If  this 
woman  isn’t  Fran  Raymond  maybe  the 
other  one  wasn’t.  And  that  means  that 
you’re  not  Jerry  and  you’re  not  Quinn. 
I should  have  guessed  that  a long  time 
ago.  Who  are  you?  Where  do  you  come 
from  ?” 

They  all  studied  her  quite  solemnly. 
She  looked  into  their  eyes  and  saw  the 
eyes  of  cold  cruel  strangers. 

Amro  said,  in  his  own  tongue,  to 
Drael,  the  agent  who  had  replaced 
Faven,  “They  did  a careless  job.  She  has 
detected  you.” 

Drael  shrugged.  “There  wasn’t  much 
time,  you  know.  And  they  blamed  you 
for  giving  them  so  little  time.  I wish 
you  were  wearing  this  face.  The  tissues 
are  raw  and  there  is  constant  pain.” 
“What  are  you  saying?”  Martha  de- 
manded. “Tell  me  who  you  are.TeM  me !” 
Amro  glanced  at  Massio.  Massio 
shrugged.  “Tell  her  if  you  want  to,  if 
you  think  you  can  explain  it.  But  re- 
member that  if  you  tell  her  it  will  be  up 
to  you  to  see  that  she  doesn’t  sneak  off 
again.” 

Amro  looked  at  Martha.  “Quinn  and 
Fran  are  dead.  Jerry  is  still  alive,  I be- 
lieve. You  are  quite  right.  We  are — 
strangers.” 

Martha  sat  huddled  in  her  chair,  like 
a punished  child.  “Why?  Why  would  a 
thing  like  that  be  done?” 

“This  is  your  world,  Martha.  It  isn’t 
ours.” 

She  laughed  wildly.  “Oh,  come  now! 
Tell  me  about  the  Martians.  Show  me 
your  space-ships!”  * 

“You’ll  have  a chance  to  see  them  but 
they  won’t  come  from  your  Mars,”  Mas- 
sio said.  “They’ll  come  from  Strada.” 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  table  palm 
down.  “Strada,”  he  said.  He  flipped  it 
over.  “And  Earth.  Peculiarly  enough 
we  seem  to  be  very  close  neighbors  of 


yours.  But  we  have  found  our  way 
through.” 

She  stood  up  and  her  chair  fell  over. 
“I’m  going  and — tell  everyone.” 

Quinn  smiled.  “From  what  I have 
learned  of  this  place,  Martha,  they  would 
just  lock  you  up.  And  if  anyone  should 
come  to  investigate  we  are  a chemist 
and  his  wife  on  vacation  with  a house 
guest.  They  can  take  our  fingerprints. 
They’ll  match,  you  know.  I think  you’d 
best  go  inside  and  lie  down.” 

She  walked  into  the  house  like  a 
wooden  doll.  She  had  wanted  to  walk 
around  to  the  cars  but  her  footsteps 
carried  her  inside  the  house,  into  the 
bedroom,  over  to  the  bed.  Amro  stood 
up.  “Watch  her,”  he  said.  “It’s  time  I re- 
ported on  last  night.” 

The  dark  oblong  formed  in  the  sun- 
light as  he  reached  it.  Without  altering 
his  stride  he  walked  through  it  and  was 
gone. 

Drael  glanced  at  Massia  “He  is  an 
odd  one.” 

“He  wasn’t  until  he  came  here.  Now 
he  is  very — odd.  He  says  strange  things. 
We  talked  last  night.  He  talked  treason 
to  me,  pausing  every  few  minutes  to  say 
that  it  was  just  speculation,  of  course. 
Just  idle  talk.” 

“Tell  me  what  he  said.” 

Massio  shrugged.  “That  it  is  possible 
that  the  conflict  between  the  League  and 
the  Center  is  pointless.  That  the  in- 
dividual is  important.  That  power  might 
be  a myth.  Is  that  enough?” 

“More  than  enough!” 

“This  Earthgirl  fascinates  him.  She 
has  misled  him.  He  smashed  Faven’s 
mind  because  Faven  wanted  to  hurt  the 
girl.  Amro  has  turned  weak.  And  so  I 
reported  him  last  night  after  we  tallted. 
I don’t  think  he’ll  be  back.” 

“Will  you  be  in  charge  here?” 

“I  think  so.” 

“What  will  you  do  about  the  girl.  If 
they  don’t  want  attention  attracted  to 
this  place  she  could  be  a problem.” 
“Right.  She  can’t  disappear  and  she 
can’t  be  killed.  That’s  where  Faven  was 
in  error.  But  there  is  a better  and  an 
easier  way.  In  her  mental  condition  a 
much  easier  way.” 


46 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND 


Dracl  smiled.  “Clever,  Massio ! And  so 
obvious  that  I didn’t  guess  it.  Take  her 
to  their  nearest  town  and  break  her 
mind  as  you  release  her.” 

“It  disturbs  me,”  he  said,  “that  this 
thing  could  happen  to  Amro.” 

*T  have  heard  of  similar  instances. 
One  of  the  female  agents  brought  in  at 
the  same  time  I was  tried  to  desert  to 
the  League.  The  man  she  was  covering 
caught  her  fancy.” 

“What  did  they  do  to  her?” 

“They  solved  it  neatly  by  getting  the 
right  sort  of  information  to  the  man  in 
question  and  then  permitting  her  to 
desert.  She  couldn’t  make  him  believe 
her,  of  course.  Quite  a disappointing 
way  to  die,  I should  say.” 


CHAPTER  VI 
Jest 


Amro  and  Lofta  stood  before  the 
Chief.  He  appeared  to  pay  little 
attention  to  Lofta’s  report.  When  Lofta 
had  finished,  the  Chief  said,  “Go.  Leave 
the  agent  here  with  me.” 

"But  I—”  The  Chief  gave  Lofta  a 
long,  frosty  look.  Lofta  left  hurriedly. 
“Sit  down,  Amro.” 

The  Chief  paced  back  and  forth.  "You 
are  an  intelligent  man,  Amro.  What  do 
you  suspect  is  going  to  happen  to  you?” 
“I’ll  be  relieved  of  the  present  oper- 
ation and  subjected  to  the  mental  ad- 
ju.stment  test.  Then  I’ll  be  killed.” 
“You  seem  pretty  certain  of  the  re- 
sults of  the  test,  don’t  you?” 

"Yes,  sir.” 

“And  you  wonder  why  I’m  wasting 
my  time  with  a condemned  agent.” 
"Yes,  sir.” 

The  Chief  sat  down.  “This  woman — 
this  Faven.  Our  records  indicate  that 
she  was  effective  and  reliable.” 

“I  believe  she  was.” 

“You  spoiled  her  quite  thoroughly, 
Amro.” 

“I  was  angry  with  her.  She  was  not 
willing  to  accept  me  as  the  appointed 


leader  of  the  three  of  us.” 

"And  of  course  she  meant  harm  to  the 
Earthgirl.” 

"That  was  the  important  thing  in  my 
mind  at  the  time.” 

“Thank  you  for  your  honesty,  Amro.” 
“There  hardly  seems  to  be  much  point 
in  being  dishonest.  I — I’ve  known,  some- 
how, that  this  would  happen.” 

"When  did  you  start  to  know?” 
"After  I had  many  talks  with  the 
Earthgirl.  Their  way  of  thought  is  not 
like  ours.  At  first  I was  interested  be- 
cause there  seemed  to  be  so  little  point 
in  it.  I tried  to  find  out  why  they  are 
the  way  they  are,  thinking  that  if  I 
could  find  the  reason  it  would  be  of  help 
to  us  in  keeping  the  population  quiet 
later. 

"Their  histories  show  that  the  males 
are  willing  to  die  for  principle  even  on 
the  side  of  an  obviously  lost  cause.  Since 
this  is  new  to  us  I wanted  to  get  more 
information  on  what  makes  them  that 
way.” 

“And  you  found  out?” 

Amro  looked  steadily  at  the  Chief.  “I 
found  out  that  in  my  own  mind  I am  as 
important  as  you — or  as  unimportant. 
You  will  order  my  life  taken  but  you 
have  no  real  right  to  do  so.  And  if  1 
found  that  I could  kill  you  this  moment 
I wouldn’t  attempt  to.  I learned  that 
very  recently.  But  if  I were  certain  by 
killing  you  I could  gain  something  for 
this  idea  of  individual  equality  you 
would  be  drawing  your  last  breath.” 
“Indeed,”  the  Chief  said  softly.  “I 
confess  that  these  strange  ideas  of  yours 
are  quite  new  to  me — quite  new.  And 
suppose  we  decide  that  the  individual  is 
important.  What  then?  It  seems  to  be 
an  empty  concept.” 

“If  we  decided,  yes.  But  if  we  decided 
and  the  League  decided  to  follow  that 
philosophy  would  not  the  importance  of 
the  individuals  on  any  planet — the  little 
people  we  have  ignor^ — be  such  that 
neither  the  League  nor  the  Center  would 
bring  to  bear  any  weapons  which  would 
destroy  the  planet  or  any  major  part 
of  it?” 

"Continue.” 

"And  if  that  fact  were  recognized  by 


45  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


both  sides  wouldn’t  we  soon  see  the 
foolishness  of  continuing  on  the  basis  of 
assassination,  since  the  only  purpose  in 
that  has  been  to  gain  such  an  edge  that 
it  would  be  safe  to  bring  major  weapons 
to  bear?” 

“And  the  last  step?” 

“If  violence  can  no  longer  be  used, 
then  we  can  only  proceed  by  non-violent 
means.  By  discussion,  debate,  compro- 
mise. And  that  means  that  you  and  I, 
equally  important  or  unimportant  peo- 
ple, can  walk  on  the  streets  of  any  city. 

“I  haven’t  walked  on  city  streets  since 
I was  a child.  I haven’t  been  entirely  un- 
afraid since  I was  a child,  not  until  I 
went  to  the  twin  world.  You  might  go 
there,  sir.  You  might  find  it  curiously 
interesting  to  walk  among  the  others.” 
“But,”  the  Chief  asked  softly,  “haven’t 
we  gone  too  far  along  a particular  path 
to  attempt  to  change  now?” 

“Yes,  sir.  But  maybe  some  time  it  will 
be  different.” 

“But  you  won’t  see  it.” 

“I  know  that.  And  I would  die  to 
bring  that  day  closer,  even  knowing 
that  I will  never  see  it.” 

The  Chief  made  an  abrupt  change 
in  the  conversation.  “They  have  wars 
there,  I believe.” 

“They  do.  But  in  more  than  half  the 
nation  there  are  men  who  hold  this 
belief  about  the  rights  of  the  individual 
and  who  want  all  problems  settled  with- 
out the  use  of  force.” 

“And  what  will  happen  to  this  twin 
world,  Amro?” 

“They’ll  put  up  a hopeless  fight.  In 
the  end  it  will  be  ours.” 

“I  am  giving  Lofta  orders  to  have  you 
held.  You  will  speak  to  no  one.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

JAKE  INGRAM  explained  who  he  was. 

He  said,  “I  heard  you  people  were 
here  on  some  kind  of  a special  case  and 
I don’t  have  enough  to  go  on  to  call  you 
in  but  just  something  funny  I want  to 
talk  over.” 

The  two  F.B.I,  men  were  young  and 
dark  haired,  with  curiously  expression- 
less faces  and  the  general  appearance 
of  bank  tellers. 


“Sit  down,”  the  taller  one  said. 

“I’ll  take  it  right  from  the  begin- 
ning,” Jake  said,  sitting  down  and  pull- 
ing out  his  notebook.  “This  girl  from 
New  York  named  Martha  Kaynan  came 
in  and  reported  . . .”  His  voice  droned 
on  and  on  in  the  small  office.  “.  . . and 
then,  without  knowing  how  I got  there, 
I was  in  my  car  and  on  the  outskirts  of 
Port  Isabel.” 

“Sun  pretty  hot?”  the  taller  one  said. 

Jake  gave  him  a shamefaced  smile. 
“Thought  the  same  thing  myself.  But  it 
bothered  me.  I know  the  roads  in  that 
section  pretty  well.  So  after  I thought 
it  over  for  a time  I stopped  in  the  office 
and  picked  up  some  good  eight-power 
binoculars. 

“I  took  a farm  road  and  left  the  car 
and  walked  across  through  the  scrub 
and  wormed  up  as  close  as  I could  to 
see  what  I could  see.  I’d  say  I was  about 
a hundred  and  fifty  yards  southwest  of 
the  house.  With  the  glasses  that  made 
’em  look  about  fifty  feet  away  and  I 
could  see  good. 

“They  ate  outside.  There  was  some 
kind  of  an  argument  going  on.  The  Kay- 
nan girl  went  into  the  house.  The  tall 
one,  French,  left  the  table  and  walked 
out  on  the  sea  side  of  the  house,  just 
like  he  was  going  someplace  special.  He 
walked  along  and  I held  the  glasses  on 
him.  A big  dark  oblong  sprang  up  right 
in  front  of  him. 

“And  this  French,  he  walked  right 
through  it  and  he  was  gone.  I took  a 
quick  look  without  the  glasses  to  make 
sure  he  hadn’t  walked  out  of  the  field 
of  vision  but  he  hadn’t.  That  beach  was 
just  as  empty  as  the  top  of  this  table. 
I know  what  you’re  thinking  but  you’re 
wrong.  I saw  it.” 

“And  then  what  did  you  do,  Ingram'?" 

“It  didn’t  make  me  feel  too  good  but 
I kept  watching.  Pretty  soon  Mr.  Ray- 
mond went  swimming  and  his  wife  went 
in  the  house  with  the  Kaynan  girl.  I 
watched  him  wade  out  and  dive  in.  And 
he  didn’t  come  up.  He  didn’t  come  up  at 
all.  I waited  and  I’d  say  it  was  five  min- 
utes later  he  came  up  about  two  hundred 
yards  out.” 

“Was  the  sun  in  your  eyes?" 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  47 ! 


“It  was  behind  me.  I could  see  good. 
He  played  around  out  there  and  then 
he  headed  for  shore.  A man  just  can’t 
swim  as  fast  as  that  fella  did.  The  spray 
flew  up  ten  feet  in  the  air.  He  came  out 
of  that  water  at  a dead  run,  and  I mean 
he  was  moving. 

“Now  you  people  can  take  it  or  leave 
it.  I’ve  given  you  the  dope.  It’s  off  my 
chest.  Something  very  damn  funny  is 
going  on  out  there  and  to  tell  you  the 
truth  I just  don’t  want  another  damn 
thing  to  do  with  it.’’ 

"Why  did  you  come  to  us?’’ 

"I  just  don’t  think  those  people  there 
are  human.  If  they  aren’t  human,  then 
they  come  from  some  other  place.  Hell 
or  Mars  or  the  Moon.  And  if  they  do, 
that’s  your  problem,  boys.  Not  mine.’’ 
"Are  you  making  this  report  offi- 
cially ?’’ 

"Any  way  you  want  me  to  make  it.’’ 
The  tall  one  said,  "So  far  there’s  no 
violation  of  any  federal  statute.  We’re 
winding  up  a case  here.  I’ll  request  per- 
mission to  go  take  a look.  Ingram,  I’ve 
heard  weird  ones  but  your  yarn — if  you 
weren’t  a police  officer  I’d  have  the  little 
men  vdth  the  nets  out  looking  for  you.’’ 
"Wouldn’t  blame  you  a bit,”  Jake 
said,  "If  you  can  take  time  off  right 
now,  I could  drive  you  out  there.  Take 
about  an  hour  from  here,  and  then  you’d 
know  how  to  get  to  where  you  can  watch 
them.” 

The  taller  one  reached  for  his  hat  and 
said,  “Let’s  go.” 

***** 

The  door  had  been  sealed  shut.  Amro 
lay  on  his  back  on  the  cot  in  the  tiny 
windowless  room,  trying  to  amuse  him- 
self by  opening  his  mind  to  the  most  ex- 
treme limits  of  receptivity.  Through  the 
thickness  of  the  walls  he  could  catch 
random  fleeting  impressions.  Somewhere 
far  above  him  there  was  tension.  It  took 
him  a long  time  to  find  out  that  it  was 
the  concentrated  emotion  of  a whole 
phalanx  of  clerks  working  against  a 
report  deadline. 

A tangle  of  thoughts  and  emotions 
moved  slowly  closer  and  be  knew  that 
someone  was  walking  down  the  corri- 


dor, passing  the  sealed  door.  The 
thoughts  were  vaguely  of  strategy  and 
intrigue,  of  move  and  countermove,  and 
he  guersed  that  it  was  one  of  the  moni- 
tors. He  tried  to  find  out  who  and  felt 
the  mind  snap  shut  against  his  probe, 
exuding  an  acid  aura  of  indignation  an(l 
outraged  privacy. 

A bit  later  there  was  an  agent  passing 
and  Amro  sensed  the  blood-thirst  in  that 
mind,  the  direct  and  uncomplicated 
pleasure  in  anticipating  the  job  for 
which  the  organism  had  been  trained. 

And  it  made  him  feel  the  extmit  of 
the  change  in  himself.  It  made  him 
think  of  Martha  Kaynan. 

They  had  taken  the  Karth  clothes 
from  him,  had  given  him  back  the  short 
kilt  but  with  weapons  pockets  empty. 
He  thought  of  Martha  and  what  they 
might  do  to  her  and  he  paced  back  and 
forth  by  the  seated  door,  his  fingernails 
biting  into  his  palms,  a sound  oddly  like 
a growl  in  his  throat. 

But  even  as  he  paced  he  knew  his 
own  helplessness.  Even  if  he  could  force 
the  door  with  his  hands  the  doorway  to 
the  twin  world  was  five  levels  below 
him.  He  would  have  to  get  by  the  normal 
complement  of  corridor  guards,  proba- 
bly three  between  him  and  the  steep 
ramp.  'Two  guards  on  each  level  at  the 
ramp  landings.  That  would  make  eleven. 

Then  probably  five  more  at  intervals 
along  the  corridor  leading  to  the  area 
where  the  negative  matter,  the  pattern 
of  unreality,  provided  the  exit  to  the 
twin  world.  There  were  two  agents  on 
duty  at  that  place,  controlling  the 
switch.  Sixteen  guards  and  two  agents. 
Eighteen  armed  men.  No  combination 
of  luck  and  agility  could  carry  him  that 
far. 

He  went  back  to  the  cot  and  forced 
relaxation  on  his  muscles.  It  was  odd,  he 
thought,  about  the  Chief.  The  strange 
attitude  he  had  taken.  And  equally  odd 
that  he  had  not  yet  been  taken  away 
for  the  test. 

Maybe  when  they  came  for  him.  . . . 
It  was  hard  to  break  the  established 
pattern  of  obedience  to  the  Center,  of 
dedication.  They  would  expect  cooper- 


48  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


ation  when  they  came  for  him.  And  it 
was  possible  that  he  could  provide  them 
with  a surprise. 

***** 

The  house  was  very  still.  She  lay  and 
listened  for  a long  time  and  all  she  could 
hear  was  the  soft  sighs  of  the  sea,  some- 
times the  thin  crackling  of  sand  blown 
against  the  side  of  the  house. 

Quinn  had  not  come  back.  No,  it  was 
a mistake  to  keep  thinking  of  him  as 
Quinn.  Quinn  French  was  dead.  The 
three  of  them  had  told  her  he  was  dead. 
And  Fran  was  dead. 

It  made  it  worse  that  Quinn  hadn’t 
come  back,  even  though  she  knew  that 
he  was  one  of  them — one  of  the  dreadful 
aliens.  How  stupid  not  to  have  seen  it 
from  the  beginning!  But  what  chance 
did  a human  have  of  detecting  the  non- 
human? 

She  guessed  that  a small  child  would 
have  known  almost  immediately.  Chil- 
dren are  quick  to  feel  strangeness.  It  is 
the  adults,  trained  in  skepticism,  who 
see  with  blind  eyes.  Adults  search  for 
reasons.  Children  merely  know. 

Why  be  afraid  because  the  creature 
horridly  masquerading  as  Quinn  has 
gone?  Maybe  because  it  was  possible  to 
sense  the  growth  of  compassion  in  him. 

They  looked  like  humans.  They  could 
make  themselves  look  like  humans.  She 
knew  that  they  would  continue  to  fool 
the  humans  until  they  had  won.  And 
then  probably  it  would  be  safe  for  them 
to  resume  their  own  guise.  How  would 
they  look?  Dreadful  slimed  sea-depths 
things?  Or  scaled,  and  coiled?  Alien, 
anyway — alien  and  horrible. 

She  wondered  if  it  were  some  trick 
of  light  that  made  them  able  to  look 
like  people.  No,  not  the  light  alone. 
There  had  been  that  moment  on  the 
beach  when  the  thing  calling  itself 
Quinn  had  kissed  her.  They  had  felt  like 
human  lips  and  his  arms  like  human 
arms.  But  too  strong,  of  course.  So 
strong  that  her  mouth  was  bruised  and 
her  ribs  ached  afterward. 

Now?  No,  not  quite  yet.  She  felt  his 
name  on  her  lips.  “Quinn !’’ 

They  had  admitted  it.  They  had  told 
her! 


Or  was  all  this  another  facet  of  mad- 
ness. The  family  had  always  spoken  in 
careful  casual  ways  about  Aunt  Harriet. 
No,  Aunt  Harriet  hadn’t  been  a blood 
relative.  No  point  in  thinking  along 
tho.se  lines.  But  remember  Alice  at 
school?  What  was  her  name? 

Alice  Masters,  Masterson,  Mathew.s, 
Mathewson — Mathers!  That  was  it — 
Alice  Mathers.  Perfectly  all  right  and 
then  they  found  her  all  curled  up  in  the 
fireplace  with  the  ashes  she  had  rubbed 
into  her  hair  and  all  over  her  face, 
laughing  and  talking  up  the  chimney, 
answering  questions  they  couldn’t  hear. 

NO,  this  wasn’t  like  that  at  all.  It 
couldn't  be!  But  didn’t  all  the 
crazy  people  claim  they  are  perfectly 
sane.  It’s  only  when  you  recognize  the 
possibility  of  your  being  a bit  whacked 
that  you  aren’t. 

Now?  Try  now,  Martha — carefully, 
slowly,  three  steps  to  the  door.  Stand 
and  wait.  No  moon  tonight.  Dress? 
Don’t  take  the  time.  Breathe  softly, 
slowly.  The  pounding  of  the  heart  will 
wake  them  surely.  A Congo  drum.  Slow- 
ly— There!  Now  you  can  see  the  door, 
that  dim  oblong.  One,  two,  three,  four 
steps.  Reach  out.  Touch  the  screen.  Now 
all  you  have  to  do  is  push  it  open  slowly 
and  . . . 

“Go  back  to  your  bed!"  Fran  said. 
Martha  held  both  hands  tightly 
against  her  mouth.  She  turned  without 
a word  and  went  back  to  her  bed. 

***** 

The  Chief  stood  once  again  with  his 
arms  crossed  and  looked  across  the 
black  void  to  the  misty  dot  of  light  that 
was  Strada.  After  he  had  listened  to 
that  agent,  Amro,  he  had  felt  that  it  was 
time  to  be  alone,  to  think  long  careful 
thoughts.  And  so  he  had  come  at  once 
to  the  asteroid. 

Back  on  Strada  the  problem  was  too 
close.  It  surrounded  and  smothered  him. 
It  echoed  in  the  corridors,  chattered  in 
the  billion  upon  billion  of  electronic  re- 
lays in  the  calculators  and  computers. 
Five  hundred  and  sixty-one  planets  de- 
pendent on  Strada.  Ceaseless  flow  of  or- 


SHADOW  ON 

ilers.  'JTove  the  exploration  crews  to 
sector  fourteen  hundred  ten. 

Eight  hundred  ton.s  of  Compound 
Seven  to  Planet  6003-11 — Emergency. 
Two  hundred  thousand  Stradai  await- 
ing passage  to  6118- ?b.  Conduct  search 
for  missing  freighter  in  sector  thirteen 
hundred  seventy.  Send  specialists  to 
6202- ?c  to  determine  cause  of  resistance 
to  atmospheric  envelope.  Send  food  at 
once.  Send  hate.  Send  envy.  Send  death. 

Strada — nerve  center.  Brain  and  head 
— record  center  of  plans,  inventories, 
census,  secret  agents  of  League  and 
Center.  Loyalty  records. 

And  what  if  the  beast  was  headless? 
No  food,  no  specialists,  no  transporta- 
tion for  those  who  waited.  Five  hundred 
and  sixty-one  orphaned  planet  Children, 
rapidly  growing  unkempt,  thrust  into 
freedom. 

"What  then?”  he  said  aloud. 

One  could  guess.  Endless  and  crip-  • 
pling  confusion  as  each  planet  slowly 
.strove  for  self-sufficiency,  staggering 
under  the  continually  increasing  burden 
of  population.  The  ancient  adjustments 
— famine,  disease  and  war.  Each  planet 
busily  scrubbing  its  own  laundry,  then 
at  last,  home  task  completed,  turning  to 
stare  with  avidity  at  a neighbor  world. 

In  the  struggle  some  of  them  would 
lose  the  knack,  the  skill,  for  space  travel. 
They  might  go  for  generations,  never 
visited.  The  language  slowly  changing, 
even  the  physical  form  of  the  Stradai 
changing,  once  limited  to  the  specific 
planet,  to  a specific  set  of  environmental 
influences.  Then  vast  combines  and  wars 
and  empires  rising  and  falling. 

An  enormous  setback  to  the  unified 
efficient  Stradian  civilization.  Or,  he 
thought,  could  it  really  be  called  a set- 
back. It  was  rumored  that  there  had 
once  been  a golden  age  before  the 
Stradai  had  lifted  themselves  from  the 
surface  of  their  home  planet.  But  the 
histories  had  been  lost,  of  course.  What 
had  the  Stradai  believed  in  then? 

Slowly  the  plan  was  forming  itself  in 
his  mind  and  he  knew  that  it  w’as  either 
wisdom — or  the  most  foul  stupidity. 
And  he  knew  that  somehow  he  would 
carry  it  through. 


THE  SAND  49 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  port  and 
into  the  tunnel  and  shut  himself  in  the 
small  craft.  The  large  port  behind  him 
opened  and  the  imprisoned  air  gouted 
out.  The  craft  moved  backward,  scrap- 
ing at  first  and  then  lifting  free  of  the 
tunnel  floor  as  it  crossed  into  the  un- 
gravitated area. 

He  emerged  on  manual  controls, 
turned  slowly  and  set  the  control  table 
for  the  proper  oscillation,  cutting  into 
his  own  headquarters  frequently  with  a 
rough  disregard  for  his  own  comfort. 
Acceleration  stood  with  leaden  feet  on 
his  chest  and  thumbed  back  his  eyes 
and  plunged  a gnarled  fist  into  his  belly. 
And  then  it  eased  off. 

On  the  tenth  minute  of  his  trip  a 
space-worn  freighter  blundered  up  out 
of  the  atmosphere  of  Strada,  too  com- 
mon a ship  to  warrant  more  than  a 
glance  from  the  guard  crew  who  had 
already  plotted  their  Chief’s  course  and 
time  of  arrival. 

On  the  seventy-third  minute  of  his 
trip  the  Chief  stopped  daydreaming  and 
gasped  as  the  collision  screen  showed 
him  that  some  blind  fool  of  a freighter 
pilot  was  staggering  into  an  intercep- 
tion course. 

As  his  hand  flicked  out  to  make  the 
.shift  from  automatic  to  manual  he  felt 
the  motor  nerves  deaden.  His  hand 
touched  the  edge  of  the  control  table, 
lay  there.  The  utmost  power  of  his  will 
could  not  move  it.  He  sat  forward  in 
the  seat,  able  to  change  the  focus  but 
not  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  Fear  was 
suddenly  gone  in  his  savage  appreci- 
ation of  the  wryness  of  the  jest. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Bluff 


Tie  woman  came  to  the  door  of 
the  room  and  stared  at  Martha. 
"Get  up.” 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me?” 
Martha  saw  the  slight  narrowing  of 
the  woman’s  eyes  and  she  immediately 


5«  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


concentrated  on  making  as  clear  as  pos- 
sible her  mental  image  of  the  wall.  She 
was  barely  in  time.  She  felt  the  thrust 
press  against  the  wall,  fade  away. 

“He  was  a fool  to  teach  you  that,” 
the  woman  said. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me?” 
“You  are  not  going  to  be  harmed, 
Martha.  After  breakfast  we  will  all 
drive  into  Harlingen.  We  want  you  to 
be  seen  with  us.  And  then  we’re  coming 
back  here.” 

“I  don’t  believe  you.” 

“What  good  will  it  do  for  you  to  be- 
lieve or  disbelieve?  Get  up.  Stop  being  a 
child.” 

Martha  slowly  got  out  of  bed.  The 
woman  stood  and  watched  her. 

“Only  the  sickest  ones  among  us  are 
as  weak  as  you  Earthpeople.  I could 
break  your  back  with  my  hands.” 
“That  must  make  you  very  proud  and 
happy.” 

“I  am  proud  and  happy  to  be  what 
I am.” 

Martha  pulled  her  dress  down  over 
her  head,  closed  the  zipper  at  the  waist. 
She  turned  and  smiled  at  the  woman. 
“What  are  you  really?  When  you  aren’t 
going  around  looking  like  what  you 
aren’t?  Some  horrid  thing  with  eight 
legs  and  leathery  wings?” 

“At  least  you  have  imagination  of  a 
sort.” 

“Oh,  thank  you,”  Martha  said  bit- 
terly. 

“Use  it  while  you  can,  my  dear,”  the 
woman  said  softly. 

The  words  set  a cold  knot  of  fear 
growing  in  Martha’s  heart.  “What — do 
— ^you — mean?” 

“Please  hurry.  You  are  to  prepare 
food  for  the  three  of  us.” 

“Where’s  Quinn?” 

“We  told  you  Quinn’s  dead.” 

“You  know  who  I mean.  The  other 
one.” 

“His  name  is  Amro — was  Amro.  For 
I am  quite  sure  that  he  is  dead  by  now 
also.  What  is  the  matter?  You  look  ill. 
Don’t  tell  me  that  you  feel  anything 
but  hate  for  any  of  us.  Haven’t  you 
wondered  what  Amro  might  really  look 
like?” 


“Yes.  But  I don’t  care.  He  isn’t  like 
you  and — and  the  other  one  out  there. 
He’s  more  like  us.  He’s  harder  and 
colder  and  cruder  than  we  are,  I know. 
But  he’s  more  like  us  than  you  are.” 

The  woman  smiled.  “Please  under- 
stand that  I am  only  amusing  myself  by 
talking  to  you.  You  could  no  more  affect 
me  by  your  good  or  bad  opinion  than 
you  could  be  similarly  affected  by  a 
stray  kitten  on  the  street.  Our  race  is 
so  far  superior  to  yours  in  every  way 
that  I have  the  utmost  difficulty  in  try- 
ing to  consider  you  a rational  creature. 
Fasten  your  ridiculous  clothing  and  go 
to  the  kitchen.” 

“Did  you  ever  wonder  if  it  was  pos- 
sibly that  you  might  be  the  infarior 
race?  Creatures  from  a sort  of  second- 
rate  civilization?” 

“Is  that  the  sort  of  thing  you  told 
Amro?” 

“It  might  be.” 

“Then  poor  Amro  must  have  been 
very  unstable  when  he  was  sent  on  this 
operation.”  The  woman  reached  out 
quickly  and  took  Martha’s  wrist.  She 
smiled  and  slowly  increased  the  pres- 
sure until  Martha  felt  the  thin  grating 
of  the  bones.  She  cried  out,  despising 
her  own  weakness. 

“Now  be  obedient,”  the  woman  said. 
***** 

Though  unable  to  move  he  was  com- 
pletely conscious  as  his  small  craft  was 
drawn  into  the  belly  of  the  freighter. 
He  saw  a glistening  flash  from  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eye  and  guessed  that  it  was 
the  substitute  being  sent  out  in  the 
identical  type  of  craft.  Even  trapped  as 
he  was  he  was  forced  to  admire  the 
timing  and  cleverness  of  the  operation. 

They  had  de-accelerated  him  so  reck- 
lessly that  it  had  broken  the  webbing 
and  thrown  him  against  the  table.  He 
could  feel  the  runlet  of  blood  on  his 
cheek. 

Endless  helpless  minutes  pa.ssed  and 
then  he  was  moved,  still  inside  his  craft, 
into  another  hull.  'Then  he  was  in  dark- 
ness. Through  the  hull  of  his  own  tiny 
ship  he  heard  the  rising  whine  of  the 
ship  enclosing  him  and  he  knew  that  it 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  51 


was  fast — very  fast. 

And,  helpless  in  the  darkness,  he  be- 
gan to  plan  once  more — this  time  with 
even  greater  care. 

SOMEHOW  they  had  got  on  a first 
name  basis  during  the  long  vigil. 
The  taller  one  was  named  Henry  and 
his  co-worker  was  Will.  They  called  him 
Jake  when  their  questions  were  casual, 
Ingram  when  they  were  of  a more 
serious  nature. 

Both  Jake  and  Henry  held  glasses  on 
the  house.  The  position  of  the  sun  put 
a harsh  glare  on  the  water  which  re- 
flected back  at  them. 

“There  they  are!"  Jake  said  in  a 
husky  whisper,  forgetting  that  the 
sound  of  the  waves  would  keep  them 
from  hearing  anything  short  of  a shout. 

They  had  appeared  at  the  north  end 
of  the  house,  walking  diagonally  over 
toward  the  two  cars.  The  taller  woman 
with  black  hair  wore  a pale  blue  bare- 
midriff  dress.  Martha  Kaynan  wore  a 
yellow  print  dress  and  sandals.  The  man 
wore  slacks  and  a sport  shirt. 

They  were  walking  slowly  and  the 
tall  woman  appeared  to  be  talking  to 
the  man.  Jake  silently  cursed,  knowing 
how  ordinary  they  must  look  to  his  two 
new  friends. 

“The  big  man  isn’t  there  any  more,” 
Jake  said.  “I  got  a hunch  he  isn’t  inside 
either.’’ 

“Watch  this!"  Henry  said.  The  small- 
er woman  had  lagged  behind.  Suddenly 
she  turned  and  began  to  sprint  down 
the  beach. 

“She  doesn’t  go  so  fast,”  Will  said. 

“I  told  you  she  isn’t  one  of  the  funny- 
acting ones.” 

The  other  two  made  no  attempt  at 
pursuit.  They  turned  and  calmly  watched 
Martha.  The  girl  stumbled  and  fell 
headlong.  She  got  up  slowly  and  turned 
and  walked  back  toward  the  other  two. 
“Look  how  she’s  walking,”  Henry  said. 
“Just  find  me  an  answer,”  Jake  said, 
“to  why  she  runs  up  the  beach  like  she 
was  scared  out  of  her  wits  and  then 
walks  back.” 

“Maybe  she’s  a little  off  upstairs,” 
Henry  suggested. 


“I  talked  to  her.  I don’t  think  so.” 

“She  came  back  of  her  own  free  will," 
Henry  said.  “I  don’t  see  how  we  have 
anything  to  go  on,  Ingram.” 

“I  wish  he’d  pull  something  fancy  so 
you  could  see  him,”  Jake  mumbled. 

It  happened  as  though  in  answer  to 
Jake’s  request.  The  convertible  was 
parked  on  the  other  side  of  the  sedan. 
The  two  women  walked  around  the  back 
of  the  sedan.  The  man  took  two  quick 
running  steps  and  vaulted  the  sedan, 
not  making  a close  thing  of  it  but  arcing 
up  and  over  and  down  with  ample  room 
to  spare. 

“Mother  O'Reilly!"  Henry  gasped. 

“See?”  Jake  said  triumphantly.  “I 
read  a book  on  logic  once.  A guy  tells 
you  a crazy  story  and  then  if  he  proves 
one  part  of  it  you’ve  got  to  give  him 
odds  on  the  rest  of  it  panning  out.” 

Will  cursed  softly  and  monotonously. 
Henry  still  wore  a dazed  look. 

“Well,  are  you  going  after  ’em?”  Jake 
demanded. 

“I’ll  compromise,”  Henry  said.  “Let’s 
get  back  to  the  cars  and  tail  them.” 

“We’ll  have  to  make  it  fast.  We’ve 
got  a longer  distance  to  go,”  Jake  said. 
“We  can  pick  them  up  at  the  fork  this 
side  of  Port  Isabel.” 

***** 

He  lay  where  they  had  thrown  him, 
the  rug  soft  under  his  cheek.  He  felt  the 
volition  returning  to  nerve  and  muscle. 
At  first  it  was  but  an  intensification  of 
the  feeling  of  weakness,  and  then  a 
rising  strength.  He  stood  up  then, 
shrugging  the  toga  of  rank  into  the 
proper  position  on  his  shoulders,  wiping 
the  crust  of  blood  from  his  cheek, 
smoothing  his  grey  hair  back  with  his 
fingers. 

The  room  was  small.  He  saw  the  two 
of  them  sitting  there,  side  by  side,  fac- 
ing him.  Their  expressions  were  gloat- 
ing. A puffy  old  man  with  traces  of 
waning  strength  in  the  set  of  his  jaw. 
An  old  woman  who  trembled  constantly. 

He  knew  how  he  looked  to  them.  A 
smallish  weary  nondescript  man— 
whose  time  had  run  out.  His  mind  was 
racing,  selecting,  discarding,  sorting. 


52  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


To  be  forced  to  stand  was  a disad- 
vantage. He  moved  back  and  leaned 
against  the  wall,  folding  his  arms  in 
his  habitual  posture.  He  made  himself 
smile  casually. 

“Greetings,  Dolpha — and  you,  Ren- 
aen.”  He  gave  them  a small,  ironic  bow. 
“If  you  had  found  the  opening  we  pro- 
vided more  quickly  1 would  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  your  friend 
Kama.  But  we  grew  tired  of  waiting 
for  you  to  take  me.” 

The  old  man’s  face  purpled.  “You,  sir, 
are  not  supposed  to  be  that  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  innermost  organiza- 
tion of  the  I.«ague.” 

“Oh  but  1 am.  I know  many  things! 
1 know  that  there  is  a wall  between  us, 
and  so  I shall  not  make  a fool  of  myself 
by  walking  into  it.” 

RENAEN  pulled  at  her  chin.  She 
said,  “You  made  Dolpha  so  angry 
that  he  missed  the  point  you  made. 
You  speak  as  though  it  were  planned 
that  we  should  capture  you  in  the  way 
we  did.  Isn’t  that  rather  a poor  bluff? 
You  seek  to  make  us  uncertain  of  our- 
selves and  thus  gain  the  advantage. 
Isn’t  thet  correct?” 

“The  fact  that  I wasn’t  killed  at  once 
indicates  to  me  that  you  were  uncertain 
about  many  things  before  you  put  your 
plan  into  effect.  And  we  have  been  so 
certain  of  your  uncertainty  that  I was 
willing  to  take  the  risk.”  He  gave  his 
words  a quiet  confidence.  He  was  re- 
warded by  the  look  in  their  eyes. 

Dolpha’s  eyes  narrowed.  “All  right, 
sir.  Suppose,  just  to  amuse  the  two  of 
us,  we  accept  the  premise.  That  it  was 
your  desire  to  be  taken  captive.  That 
would  indicate  that  you  wish  to  speak 
about  something.” 

“I  did  wish  to.  Now  that  I’ve  seen  the 
two  of  you,  I wonder  if  it  is  worth  while. 
You  showed  a certain  amount  of  in- 
telligence in  risking  having  me  brought 
to  Strada  but  that  may  be  just  senile 
shrewdness.” 

“There  are  ways  that  you  can  pay  for 
insults,”  Renaen  said  shrilly. 

He  laughed.  “I  hardly  think  so.  You 
must  have  X-rayed  me.  And  the  pellet 


put  torture  out  of  date  before  any  of 
us  were  born.” 

“We  have  ways  of  making  it  ineffec- 
tive,” Renaen  said. 

Again  he  laughed.  “Oh,  come  now! 
We  are  wasting  time.  And  you  will  be 
surprised  at  how  little  time  there  is  left. 
You  have  one  fairly  competent  man  here 
— ^Rellovo.  I want  to  state  a concept 
and  a few  formulae  to  him.  Then  you 
can  test  his  reaction.  Send  for  him.” 
"Can  you  give  us  orders?” 

"Can  you  afford  to  pass  up  the  chance 
of  learning  how  the  Center  has  finally 
won  ?” 

The  cold  confidence  and  finality  of 
that  statement  staggered  the  two  of 
them.  He  could  see  that.  The  wall  be- 
tween them  became  suddenly  opaque. 
He  waited  patiently.  When  it  cleared 
again  Rellovo  stood  behind  them. 

The  Chief  stated  crisply  the  reason- 
ing behind  the  formulae,  the  formulae 
themselves  and  the  result.  He  watched 
Rellovo’s  face  as  he  talked,  seeing  first 
the  doubt,  then  the  high  excitement  of 
the  scientific  mind,  then  the  staring  fear 
as  he  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

"Well?”  Dolpha  said. 

“It — it  sounds  convincing,”  Rellovo 
stammered.  “There  would  have  to  be 
tests  made — we  know  a little  about  the 
nature  of  negative  matter — I would 
have  to  think  about  it  and — ” 

“But  there’s  no  time  for  thinking,” 
the  Chief  said.  "We  went  through  that 
doorway  some  time  ago.  And  we’ve  been 
preparing.  Major  weapons  have  been 
taken  into  that  adjoining  world.  In- 
stallations have  been  constructed.  You 
cannot  attack  us  there.  But  we  can 
emerge  at  any  time  at  any  place  on  this 
planet  and  smash  you.” 

“Could  this  be  true?”  Dolpha  yelled 
at  Rellovo. 

"On  one  hand,  it  would  appear  that — ” 
“Don’t  write  me  a text!  Could  it  be 
true?  Is  it  possible!” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

SUDDENLY  the  fear  went  out  of 
Dolpha’s  rheumy  eyes.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  said  softly,  “Very 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  53 


clever.  For  a moment  your  bluflf  came 
close  to  working.  But  there  is  one  ques- 
tion you  can’t  answer.  If  it  is  true  why 
haven’t  you  struck?’ 

“Very  simple.  We  are  too  closely  in- 
terwoven here.  We  can’t  hurt  you  with- 
out hurting  some  of  our  own  instal- 
lations and  if  you  were  desperate  enough 
you  might  attempt  quite  successfully  to 
destroy  the  whole  planet.  The  Center 
needs  Strada  as  the  administrative 
headquarters  for  the  entire  system. 
Now  that  victory  is  so  easy  there  is  no 
point  at  all  in  hunting  you  down  and 
wiping  you  out.  Too  much  trouble.  Just 
give  up.” 

"And  if  we  don’t?” 

“One  hour  and — let  me  see.  One  hour 
and  forty-one  minutes  from  now  this 
structure  will  have  suffered  a slight 
change.  Some  of  it  will  be  dust,  heading 
toward  the  stratosphere,  and  the  rest 
of  it  should  be  a fairly  large  molten  pool. 

“Every  other  principal  League  instal- 
lation on  Strada  will  suffer  the  same 
consequences.  The  entire  attack  has  been 
coordinated  or  an  automatic  basis  and 
it  is  now  controlled  by  a timing  device 
in  my  headquarters.  'The  timing  device 
is  so  adjusted  that  no  one  can  disen- 
gage it  but  myself.”  He  saw  Rellovo 
bend  over  to  whisper  in  Dolpha’s  ear. 

He  said  more  loudly,  “Naturally  the 
destruction  of  my  headquarters  would 
set  the  entire  affair  off  a bit  prema- 
turely.” 

Rellovo  straightened  up,  his  face 
white,  his  mouth  working.  “We  can  ar- 
range to  strike  back,”  Renaen  said.  “In 
fact,  it — ” 

“ — it  is  already  arranged,  I know,” 
the  Chief  said,  “and  has  been  for  a long 
time.  We  haven’t  underestimated  you. 
We  both  have  had  a knife  at  each  others’ 
throat  for  many  years.  But  it  now  hap- 
pens that  our  knife  is  sharper.” 

“If  we  hold  you  here,”  Dolpha  said, 
“you  die  with  us.” 

The  Chief  shrugged.  “Why  not?  I 
would  say  that  my  work  is  over.  They 
can  call  me  the  man  who  defeated  the 
League.  When  I permitted  you  to  cap- 
ture me  I was  taking  that  chance.  One 
hour  and  thirty-six  minutes  now.” 


Once  again  the  wall  became  opaque. 
He  let  out  his  breath  in  a long  shudder- 
ing sigh.  So  far  it  had  gone  well.  The 
minutes  went  by.  Fear  grew  in  him,  fear 
that  they  had  sensed  the  bluff,  had  de- 
cided to  wait  until  the  designated  time. 

The  wall  cleared.  Dolpha  sat  alone. 
The  other  chair  was  empty.  And  there 
was  a tiny  smear  of  blood  on  the  arm 
of  it. 

“Now  there  is  only  one  of  us  to  deal 
with,”  Dolpha  said.  “She  had  passed 
her  usefulness  to  the  League.  I have 
been  in  touch  with  the  others.  They  will 
abide  by  my  decision.  I see  no  reason 
why  the  Leagfue,  recognizing  the  Center 
as  the  ultimate  authority,  cannot  con- 
tinue to  function  on  a dependent  basis. 

“Our  organization  is  already  set  up 
to  handle  troublesome  administrative 
details,  thus  taking  them  off  your  hands. 
Naturally  both  the  Center  and  the 
League  can  disband  all  agent  organiza- 
tions. I promise  complete  capitulation.” 

The  Chief  gave  him  an  ironic  smile. 
“You  will  not  disband  your  agent  organ- 
izations only  to  start  newer  more  secret 
ones?” 

“Why,  of  course  not!”  said  Dolpha. 

“And  you  will  not  set  up  any  experi- 
ment to  develop  a mode  of  egress  to  the 
twin  world?” 

Dolpha  gave  a slight  bow,  “The 
League  will  have  enough  to  do  handling 
routine  administrative  work.  Science  is 
the  province  of  the  Center.  Now  let  us 
arrange  your  passage  back  to  your  own 
headquarters  so  that  you  can  deactivate 
that  timing  device.  'The  thought  of  it 
ticking  on  and  on  makes  me  very  nerv- 
ous.” 

“You  trust  me,  eh?”  the  Chief  asked. 

“Of  course — of  course.  There  seems 
to  be  one  hour  and  sixteen  minutes  left. 
Transportation  has  been  arranged  for 
you.  You  will  arrive  safely  at  your 
headquarters  when  there  is  exactly 
fifty-nine  minutes  left.  It  should  not 
take  you  over  thirty  minutes  to  establish 
your  correct  identity  and  five  minutes  to 
reach  the  device.  We  shall  expect  that 
as  soon  as  you  have  deactivated  it  you 
will  communicate  with  us  through  offi- 
cial channels  advising  us  of  that  femt. 


54  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


"If  we  do  not  hear  from  you  and  have 
not  heard  from  you  exactly  five  minutes 
before  the  time  you  stated  we  shall 
launch  our  own  attack  on  all  Center  in- 
stallations. And  should  you  attack  first, 
please  understand  that  your  attack,  even 
if  all  League  installations  are  destroyed, 
will  do  nothing  to  dimini.sh  the  force  of 
our  retaliation.” 

“I  understand.” 

“Then  go  through  the  door  on  your 
left.  It  is  now  unlocked.  Follow  the 
guard  detail.” 

The  Chief  arrived,  as  Dolpha  had 
said,  when  there  were  but  fifty-nine 
minutes  left  of  the  entirely  imaginary 
period.  As  the  substitute  had  been  de- 
tected and  killed  minutes  after  the  du- 
plicate craft  had  landed  identification 
took  but  ten  minutes. 

He  brushed  oif  any  attempt  at  ques- 
tioning and  went  immediately  to  his 
headquarters.  He  had  been  able  to  act  as- 
sured because  the  timing  device  was 
there  and  had  been  there  for  over  two 
years.  But  it  had  never  been  connected. 

He  proceeded  to  connect  it.  It  was  diz- 
zying to  think  of  the  multiplicity  of  au- 
tomatic weapons  of  death  and  destruc- 
tion which  lay,  brooding  and  silent, 
v/aiting  for  the  tiny  impulse.  With  the 
most  infinite  care  he  set  it  to  coincide 
with  the  exact  minute  at  which  Dolpha 
had  promised,  if  word  didn’t  come,  to 
unleash  the  equally  potent  hell  that  the 
League  had  labored  so  long  to  perfect. 
And  then  he  prayed  to  the  rumored  gods 
of  the  long-forgotten  golden  age  of  the 
Stradai. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Explosion 


The  convertible  went  slowly  through 
the  outskirts  of  Harlingen,  the  gov- 
ernment sedan  a half  block  behind  it. 
Jack  close  behind  the  government  sedan. 

They  had  confided  their  plan  to  Jake 
and  he  was  faintly  and  uncomfortably 
skeptical  about  it.  The  only  advantage  it 


had  was  its  quality  of  innocuousness.  If 
there  was  nothing  at  all  peculiar  about 
the  trio,  two  supposed  field  men  from 
the  Bureau  of  Internal  Revenue  asking 
questions  about  the  whereabouts  of 
Quinn  French  would  not  alarm  them. 
But  the  uneasiness  within  Jake  persist- 
ed. The  flaw  in  the  idea  was  to  his  way 
of  thinking  the  lack  of  a second  line  of 
defense.  He  vowed  that  he  would  stay 
close,  but  not  too  close. 

The  convertible  turned  right  near  the 
hotel,  paused  for  the  light  while  the  gov- 
ernment sedan  idled  along  in  its  wake.  A 
half  block  beyond  the  light  it  pulled  in  to 
the  curb  where  diagonal  parking  was 
permitted.  The  government  sedan 
picked  a neighboring  empty  slot.  Jake 
found  a hole  five  or  six  cars  away  and 
was  out  as  soon  as  he  had  cut  the  motor, 
not  very  comforted  by  the  weight  of 
the  .38  special. 

The  Raymonds  and  the  Kaynan  girl 
got  out  of  the  convertible.  Jake  saw 
that  the  Kaynan  girl  looked  sick  and  diz- 
zy. Henry  and  Will  moved  in  casually 
and  the  trio  became  a quintet,  a casual 
conversation  group  on  the  sun-hot  side- 
walk of  the  small  Texas  city. 

It  was  all  so  casual  and  so  ordinary 
that  Jake  slowly  relaxed  the  muscles  of 
his  right  arm,  ready  to  take  his  sweaty 
palm  from  the  revolver  grip. 

Then  Henry  turned  visibly  pale  and 
took  two  wooden  steps  backward.  At  the 
same  moment  Martha  Kaynan,  half 
crouching  as  though  expecting  a blow 
from  behind,  scuttled  down  the  side- 
walk toward  where  Jake  stood,  half 
concealed  by  the  parked  cars. 

Jake  was  indecisive  but  then  he  saw 
the  naked  terror  on  the  Kaynan  girl’s 
face.  It  was  as  though  for  one  moment 
he  had  been  permitted  to  look  down 
into  a hell  of  fear  so  vast  as  to  be  barely 
comprehended.  And  the  result  was  to 
immediately  inflame  him  with  a hate 
and  detestation  of  those  two  who  stood 
facing  down  the  two  FBI  agents. 

The  woman  turned  and  Jake  saw  the 
fury  on  her  face,  the  narrowed  blazing 
eyes  as  she  stared  after  Martha.  Mar- 
tha fell  and  rolled  on  the  sidewalk, 
scraping  her  knees  and  elbows,  her  he^d 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  55 


hitting  with  a small  dismal  thud. 

Jake  felt  an  arrow  of  pain  sizzling 
behind  the  sturdy  bone  of  his  forehead 
and  he  crouched,  pulling  the  special  clear 
of  the  holster.  He  saw  Will,  falling  back- 
ward, his  face  still  contorted,  rip  out 
his  own  gun,  aim  it  with  a wavering 
hand. 

Mr,  Raymond  reached  inside  the 
sport  shirt  and  his  hand  reappeared.  In 
it  he  held  a small  powder  blue  tube,  as 
ridiculous  as  a child’s  beanshooter.  Jake 
clamped  his  teeth  hard  on  the  pain  and 
took  careful  aim  for  a shoulder  of  Mr. 
Raymond.  Raymond  fired  first.  Jake 
only  knew  that  he  fired  by  the  effect  on 
V/ill. 

There  was  no  sound  of  explosion,  no 
visible  flash.  A ragged  hole  the  size  of 
a basketball  appeared  in  the  center  of 
Will’s  chest  and,  as  he  slid  over  back- 
ward Jake,  for  an  incredulous  fraction 
of  a second  could  see  through  Will,  could 
see  the  pale  stone  wall  beyond  him. 

He  squeezed  down  on  the  trigger, 
knowing  as  the  shot  kicked  off  that  he 
was  a tiny  bit  high  for  a shoulder  shot. 
But  he  was  unprepared  for  the  result. 
Jake  had  been  Navy.  The  nearest  thing 
to  it  in  his  experience  was  a forty  mil- 
limeter H.E.  'The  top  half  of  Mr.  Ray- 
mond detonated  with  a crack-thoom  that 
shook  the  street. 

After  it  came  the  drip  and  tinkle  of 
broken  glass,  the  distant  plaintive  cries 
of  frightened  women,  the  bellows  of 
alarmed  men,  the  scream  and  crash  of 
nearby  traffic  accidents. 

The  sound  of  Henry’s  shot  v/as  feeble 
by  comparison,  a flat  empty  snap  that 
sounded  like  a cap  pistol,  but  the  wom- 
an staggered  and  fell  with  a spreading 
redness  on  the  hem  of  her  blue  skirt. 

Just  as  Jake  began  to  feel  that  may- 
be it  was  ended,  just  as  he  began  to  suck 
in  the  deep  breath  of  relief,  the  writhing 
woman  on  the  sidewalk  began  to  scream 
in  a strange  tongue.  And  an  enormous 
invisible  whiplash  flailed  the  air.  It 
whined  without  sound,  criss-crossing, 
flicking,  stinging.  It  cracked  against 
Jake’s  mind  and  he  bounced  off  the 
fender  of  his  own  car  as  he  fell. 

People  a half  block  away  dropped  to 


their  knees  and  hugged  their  heads  and 
moaned.  A car  ran  up  over  the  sidewalk 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street  and 
smashed  through  the  plate  glass  window 
of  a supermarket.  Jake  lay  panting  for 
a moment  and  started  to  struggle  up. 
The  impact  against  his  mind  smashed 
him  flat  again  and  he  gagged. 

He  rolled  onto  his  stomach  and,  look- 
ing under  the  car,  he  saw  the  woman 
slowly  crawling  toward  the  converti- 
ble. Beyond  her  Henry  lay  helpless, 
blood  on  his  chin  from  his  chewed  lip. 
Those  who  had  come  running  to  the 
source  of  the  explosion  lay  on  the  side- 
walk, moving  weakly,  trying  to  stand, 
then  dropping  again  as  the  whistling 
lash  of  power  hit  them. 

The  woman  had  stopped  screaming  in 
her  peculiar  language.  Martha  lay  hud- 
dled and  silent. 

Jake  Ingram  was  a stubborn  man 
with  an  exceptional  capacity  for  anger. 
Five  times  he  tried  to  center  his  sights 
on  her  and  each  time  the  enervating 
blast  thudded  the  gun  back  against  the 
asphalt.  But  the  sixth  time  he  was  given 
a fractional  part  of  a second  and  he 
pulled  the  trigger  before  the  mind-whip 
was  due  to  return.  He  could  drive  a nail 
at  thirty  paces.  She  was  ten  paces  away 
and  a woman’s  head  is  considerably 
larger  than  a nail. 

The  second  massive  detonation  came. 
From  the  waist  down  she  was  intact. 
The  rest  of  her  had  ceased  to  exist. 
There  was  a pinkish  spray  on  the  side  of 
the  building,  an  enormous  dished  cav- 
ity in  the  door  of  the  convertible.  The 
street  was  once  again  at  peace. 

The  people  slowly  got  to  their  feet. 
They  wore  dazed  expressions.  They 
licked  dry  lips  and  their  eyes  rolled. 
Henry  sat  up,  wiped  his  mouth,  stared 
at  Will  and  began  to  curse.  Jake  walked 
over  and  picked  Martha  up.  Her  eyes 
opened  wide  and  she  struggled. 

“It’s  all  over,  baby,’’  Jake  said  thick- 
ly. “All  over.  Cry  if  you  want  to.’’ 

Amro  came  to  his  feet  as  he  sensed 
the  presence  outside  his  door.  The 
mind  exuded  an  odd  effluvium  of  tri- 
umph and  peace.  He  stood,  awaiting 


r,fi  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


the  known  fate,  as  the  door  was  un- 
sealed. It  swung  open  and  he  saw  the 
Chief  standing  in  the  corridor.  The 
Chief’s  eyes  were  odd.  For  a moment 
Amro  couldn’t  understand.  Then  he  re- 
membered having  seen  children  cry.  He 
had  never  seen  a man  cry. 

The  guard,  standing  at  attention  in 
respect  for  the  toga  of  rank,  said,  “The 
orders  from  Lofta  were  that  the  pris- 
oner is  to  be — ’’ 

“I  countermand  his  orders.  Amro  will 
come  with  me.’’ 

Amro  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room, 
faking  calmness,  his  senses  alert,  wait- 
ing for  any  chance,  no  matter  how  re- 
mote. 

“Walk  beside  me,”  the  Chief  said. 
Amro  did  so.  The  Chief  said  when 
they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  guard, 
"Do  not  attempt  an  escape,  Amro.  I am 
helping  you.” 

“What  sort  of  a trick  is  this?” 

“No  trick.  You  told  me  once  that  it 
would  be  good  if  I were  to  walk  in  the 
streets  of  the  twin  world.  And  there 
isn’t  much  time.  I’d  like  to  try  it.” 
“What  do  you  mean — not  much  time?” 
“Don’t  question  me,  Amro.” 

They  walked  past  the  corridor  guards 
and  the  Chief  took  their  salutes  with- 
out response.  Amro  saw  that  the  guards 
looked  uncertain.  He  sensed  that  they 
were  on  the  verge  of  objecting.  There 
was  a small  cold  spot  in  the  small  of 
his  back  as  he  passed  each  of  them. 

The  Chief  walked  too  slowly,  he 
thought.  He  walked  like  a man  in  a 
strange  dream.  They  reached  the  ramp 
and  started  down.  “You  will  sliow  me 
the  twin  world,  Amro,”  the  Chief  said. 
His  voice  was  gentle. 

“So  you  can  plan  to  spoil  it.” 

“Do  you  think  so?” 

“What  other  reason  would  you  have?” 
“That’s  right.  What  other  reasson 
would  I have?” 

On  the  third  landing  the  guard  said, 
“You  cannot  pass  below  this  level.  No 
one  can  pass  unless  I am  told  by  Lofta 
to  permit  it.” 

The  Chief  lost  his  odd  lethai’gic  man- 
ner. He  straightened  and  his  lips  grew 
thin.  His  palm  cracked  off  the  guard’s 


cheek.  “Take  that  to  Lofta  with  my 
compliments.  Stand  aside.” 

The  guard  hesitated,  licked  his  lips. 
His  cheek  was  rod.  He  saluted  and  stood 
aside.  They  continued  down  the  ramp. 

Hope  grew  slowly  in  Amro.  Free  on 
Earth  he  would  have  a chance.  Maybe,  if 
the  Earthpeople  could  be  made  to  believe 
him,  he  could  help  them  fight  against 
this  thing,  this  doorway.  It  would  be  a 
losing  fight  but  a good  one.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  sensed  that  some- 
thing was  worth  fighting  for. 

They  reached  the  last  corridor,  the 
ground  level  corridor,  stretching  to 
where,  at  the  very  end,  two  agents 
guarded  the  switch  which  controlled  the 
exit  to  Earth.  They  studied  with  inter- 
est the  two  who  approached. 

“Open  the  doorway,”  the  Chief  said. 
It  was  a tone  heavy  with  the  custom  of 
years  of  command,  which  did  not  admit 
of  any  possibility  of  disobedience. 

An  agent  dutifully  turned  and  threw 
the  switch.  The  blank  end  of  the  corri- 
dor was  suddenly  darker  than  any  night. 
The  other  agent  moved  into  the  center 
of  the  corridor.  “You’ll  wait  for  Lofta 
to  send  orders,”  he  said. 

The  Chief  was  mild.  “You  know  who 
lam?” 

“Of  course.  But  I have  known  of  oth- 
er agents  tested  in  this  manner.  And  so 
I shall  follow  my  orders.”  The  deadly 
blue  tube  appeared  in  his  hand. 

“You  would  even  kill  me?” 

“Yes  sir.  I w’ould  kill  you  should  you 
try  to  pass  me.” 

The  black  doorway  was  so  near.  Amro 
moved  a bit  to  one  side.  The  blue  muz- 
zle flicked  in  his  direction  and  the  agent 
said,  “You  have  no  chance,  you  see.” 

It  began  as  a deep  heavy  vibration,  a 
trembling  that  was  transmitted  from 
the  corridor  floor  to  legs  and  skull. 
Amro  looked  quickly  at  the  Chief.  The 
smaller  man’s  head  was  cocked  to  one 
side  and  he  wore  the  look  of  one  who 
listens  carefully. 

“What  is  that?”  the  agent  demanded. 

“You  could  call  it  the  end  of  the 
world,”  the  Chief  said.  And  then,  al- 
most to  himself,  “The  Center  strikes 
first” 


SHADOW  ON  THE  SAND  57 


The  vibration  became  deeper  and 
stronger  as  though  the  crust  of  Strada 
quivered  on  the  jellied  rock  underneath. 
A far-off  rumble,  like  the  sound  of 
heavy  machines,  slowly  climbed  up 
through  the  octaves  to  a roar,  a drone, 
a whine,  a rising,  unbearable  scream. 
The  whole  corridor  shook  violently, 
throwing  them  off  their  feet.  Bits  of  the 
wall  flaked  off,  dropped  on  them  as  they 
tried  to  rise. 

And  then  it  was  as  though  a giant’s 
hands  grasped  the  far  end  of  the  corri- 
dor floor,  snapping  it  like  a rug.  A sec- 
tion of  the  roof  fell  in  yards  behind 
them  and  the  white  heat  slanted  through 
the  opening,  destroying  vision,  crisping 
exposed  skin. 

Amro  struggled  to  his  feet,  getting  his 
balance,  remaining  upright  despite  the 
spasms  of  the  corridor  floor  which  lift- 
ed him  into  the  air.  One  of  the  agents 
lay  stilL  The  other,  thinking  blindly  of 
duty  even  at  the  obvious  end,  clawed  his 
way  up  toward  the  switch. 

His  hand  was  inches  from  it  as  Amro 
plunged  toward  the  black  doorway.  He 
thought  in  mid-stride  that  he  was  too 
late.  The  whole  corridor  tilted  over  at  a 
crazy  angle  as  he  lunged  through  the 
blackness.  There  was  a great  pain  in 
his  legs  and  he  tumbled  over  and  over. 

They  had  stood  and  watched  the  ob- 
long of  blackness  which  had  so  star- 
tlingly appeared  on  the  sunlit  beach. 
Henry  had  raced  to  the  sedan  and  or- 
dered that  a fifty-caliber  Browning  with 
a field  mount  be  borrowed  from  the  Na- 
tional Guard  arsenal  and  rushed  out  to 
the  beach.  He  returned  and  stood  be- 
side Jake  and  the  others,  gun  drawn, 
waiting  for  what  might  come  out  of  the 
blackness. 

Jake  stood  with  the  cold  sweat  run- 
ning down  his  ribs.  Martha  stood  a little 
behind  and  twice  he  turned  and  told  her 
to  take  shelter  behind  the  cars.  She  ap- 
peared not  to  hear  him. 

Henry  said,  "If  we  get  time  to  get 
that  gun  set  up  we  can  pepper  the  hell 
out  of  anything  that  tries  to  come 
through.” 

Jake  nodded,  sensing  the  hollowness 


of  Henry’s  confidence.  It  matched  hie 
own.  He  was  certain  that  Henry  knew 
that  something  could  come  out  of  there 
that  would  make  the  machine  gun  as  ef- 
fective as  throwing  wild  rice  at  armor 
plate.  But  all  you  can  do  is  try. 

All  you  can  do  is  stand  and  think  of 
how  neat  and  explicable  everything  was 
until  all  of  a sudden  you  found  out  that 
other  beings  aren’t  going  to  come  from 
the  distant  stars  sometime  in  the  un- 
known future — but  out  of  an  obscene 
blackness  right  in  your  own  back  yard, 
here  and  now.  And  then  you  know  that 
no  matter  what  you  do  you  aren’t  ready 
for  them — never  were — never  will  be. 

The  afternoon  radio  programs  were 
on,  the  Texas  disc  jodceys  featuring 
slightly  nasal  lonesome  cowhands.  A 
commentator  was  speaking  in  stern 
voice  of  the  latest  Russian  veto  and  in 
White  Sands  they  were  readying  another 
big  one  of  the  booster  type,  proud  of 
their  knowledge,  not  knowing  how 
feeble  and  primitive  it  was.  There  was 
unrest  on  Hawaiian  docks  and  critical 
acclaim  for  the  new  Bergman  epic  and  a 
novelist’s  anatomical  details  banned  in 
Boston.  . . . 

But  here,  with  the  sand  yellow-white 
in  the  sun,  with  the  porpoises  playing 
in  the  green  water  a thousand  yards  out, 
with  a crab  scuttling  down  toward  the 
breakers,  a knot  of  men  and  a quiet  girl 
watched  the  deep  and  impossible  black- 
ness with  all  the  forlorn  courage  of  a 
Neanderthal  village  attacking  a tank 
column.  Here  was  the  end  of  a world 
and  its  color  was  black. 

Surprise  froze  them  as  the  figure 
came  tumbling  out  of  the  blackness,  roll- 
ing over  and  over  in  the  sand.  Jake  was 
the  first  to  respond,  snap-shooting,  the 
slug  kicking  up  sand  near  a brown 
shoulder — and  then  Martha  was  in  front 
of  him,  right  in  the  line  of  fire,  scream- 
ing, “No,  don’t!"  as  she  ran  toward 
the  figure  on  the  sand. 

The  black  oblong  had  canted  over  to 
a strange  angle,  a rectangle  standing  on 
one  point.  With  a roar  that  covered  the 
sound  of  the  sea,  with  a long  upreach- 
ing  tongue  of  white  fiame  that  dimmed 
the  sun,  the  oblong  disappeared. 


58  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


The  man  lay  still.  Jake  recognized 
him  as  Quinn  French.  He  said,  "Get  out 
of  the  way  and  I’ll  give  him  one  in  the 
head.  I can  see  him  breathing.” 

"Hold  it!”  Henry  snapped. 

Martha  sat  and  pulled  the  man’s  head 
into  her  lap.  She  stared  defiantly  at 
them.  "You’re  not  going  to  kill  him!” 
She  looked  down  at  him  as  his  eyes 
opened.  He  looked  up  into  her  eyes 
and,  before  she  had  a chance  to  erect  the 
wall  she  felt  his  thoughts  in  her  mind. 
Joy  at  her  presence,  thankfulness,  hu- 
mility. All  her  doubt  and  fear  was  gone. 

She  said,  "This  isn’t  one  of  them.  'This 
is  Quinn  French.  I’m  sure  of  it.” 

He  sat  up,  got  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 
“One  of  them  looked  just  like  me.  I don’t 
understand.”  He  knuckled  his  forehead. 

"They  were  having  some  sort  of  a war 
among  themselves.  I escaped  in  the  ex- 
citement. I guess  I got  through  just  in 
time.  The  whole  place  was  exploding. 
They  were  smashing  their  own  world.” 
"They’re  tricky,”  Jake  said  to  Henry. 
"Don’t  trust  him.” 

"Hey,”  Amro  said,  "I’m  not  one  of 
them.  I’m  Quinn  French.  Why  don’t  you 
check  instead  of  waving  those  guns. 
Take  my  prints.  They’ll  check  with  the 
ones  the  Army  took  of  me.  Go  get  some 
people  who  have  known  me  all  my  life. 
Have  them  ask  me  questions.  I don’t 
know  what  the  hell  has  been  going  on 
here.  All  I know  is  that  it’s  over.  Where 
are  Fran  and  Jerry?” 

"They’re  dead,”  Henry  said. 

"Look.  I’m  burned.  The  blisters  are 
coming  up.  Why  don’t  you  stop  all  this 
talking  and  take  me  to  a doctor?” 
Martha’s  hand  closed  warningly  on 
his.  Immediately  she  felt  the  thought 
of  reassurance  in  her  mind. 

"Right,”  Henry  said,  "but  you’re  un- 
der guard  until  we’re  satisfied. 

"That  suits  me,”  Amro  said. 

SOME  ten  days  later  Martha  and  Am- 
ro lay  on  a strip  of  sand  side  by 
side.  Three  miles  away  scientists  and  a 
detachment  of  the  regular  army  waited 
for  the  reappearance  of  the  black  ob- 
long. The  whole  affair  had  been  care- 
fully kept  from  public  knowledge,  due  to 


the  risk  of  panic.  "Marriage,”  said 
Amro,  "is  an  interesting  custom.  A bit 
primitive,  of  course,  but  I find  that  1 
approve.” 

"Males,”  said  Martha,  "no  matter 
what  world  they  come  from,  are  insuf- 
ferable.” 

He  propped  himself  up  on  his  elbows. 
His  glance  was  very  direct.  "Why  did 
you  do  it?”  he  asked.  “How  did  you 
make  yourself  take  such  a risk?  You 
had  to  assume  that  I had  grown  to  be- 
lieve in  the  things  you  believe  in — and 
you  also  had  to  assume  that  I wouldn’t 
suddenly  stop  looking  like  Quinn  and 
start  looking  like  a monster.” 

“I  reserve  the  right  to  be  illogical.” 
"Be  illogical  out  loud.  It  isn’t  good 
taste  to  invade  your  mental  privacy.” 
"Go  ahead  and  invade.  I’m  not  mod- 
est.” 

She  bared  her.  mind  and  he  reached 
in,  tasted  the  strength  of  her  belief  in 
him,  the  love  that  was  there,  the  per- 
fect trust.  It  made  him  feel  proud  and 
humble.  Her  eyes  were  wet  as  she 
turned  to  smile  at  him. 

"We  must  plan,”  he  said.  "My  people 
have  lost  the  way  to  this  world.  They 
won’t  find  it  again  for  a long  time.  Stra- 
da  is  dead.  But  they  will  find  the  way 
again  from  another  planet,  when  it 
is  habitable  again,  from  Strada.  By  that 
time  we  must  be  ready.” 

"We?  I like  to  hear  you  say  that.” 
"You  have  a lot  to  teach  me,  Mar- 
tha. I’m  such  a miserable  amateur  at 
this  way  of  life.” 

"I  think  you’re  doing  very  nicely.” 
He  frowned.  “I  suppose  the  best  thing 
to  do  would  be  to  set  up  a laboratory. 
Some  of  my  technical  training,  even 
though  on  Strada  it  was  considered  ele- 
mentary, will  lead  to  things  that  are 
new  here.  First  we’ll  have  to  get  ad- 
vanced texts  so  that  I can  see  how  much 
has  been  done.” 

"Darling,”  she  said.  “So  much  ener- 
gy ! Don’t  think  about  it  yet.  Not  for  a 
little  while.” 

He  stared  at  her  and  grinned.  "So?” 
Her  blush  was  violent.  "This  mind- 
reading,” she  said,  "takes  a bit  of  get- 
ting us^  to.” 


The  Spaceship  Orion  Runs  Wild  Above  the  Earth! 


Near  Harsen  incoming  ship*  Hiundered  at  ifiay  laruJad 


TRAFFIC 

BOLLmG  BRANBAM 


The  cool  ball  of  light  that  was  the 
Earth  flashed  momentarily  in  the 
port  of  the  ship,  and  the  ten  passengers 
in  the  lounge  craned  their  necks  to  catch 
a fleeting  glimpse. 

“Why,  it’s  not  impressive  at  all,"  sim- 
pered the  girl  from  Procyon  III.  “Our 


system  is  full  of  bigger  and  brighter 
worlds.  Isn't  that  right,  Jan?" 

The  young  man  by  her,  whose  body 
was  perfectly  proportioned,  grinned.  “I 
told  you  about  Earth,  Sorina.  I’ve  seen 
it  too  many  times  on  the  telecasts  not  to 
know  it’s  really  an  insignificant  little 


59 


60  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


chip  of  rock.  And  yet  everyone  in  the 
Federation  still  wants  to  see  it  for  him- 
self.” 

A smallish,  fat  man,  who  had  kept  his 
face  next  to  the  port  until  Earth  disap- 
peared from  sight  around  the  contour 
of  the  ship  turned  back  and  said : 
“Folks,  that  little  ball  of  light  looks 
mighty  doggone  good  to  me.” 

The  ten  persons  turned  to  look  at  him. 
“You’ve  been  to  Earth  before?” 

'The  fat  man  grinned  expansively. 
“Been  there?  Heck,  I’m  a native.  Grew 
up  not  ten  miles  from  the  Land-O-Mat. 
But  I haven’t  seen  Earth  for  a long, 
long  time.  Ten  years,  it’s  been.” 

’The  ten  passengers  eyed  each  other, 
and  looked  back  at  the  fat  man  with 
mild  curiosity.  The  whole  of  Earth  had 
a population  of  only  ten  billion,  a mere 
mote  in  a Galactic  Empire  that  included 
nine  hundred  thousand  billion  humans 
spread  through  a hundred  thousand 
planets,  and  a native  was  still  some- 
what of  a rarity.  They  did  not  ask  ques- 
tions, knowing  the  fat  man  was  going 
to  talk  anyway. 

“Yeah,  I grew  up  right  there  in  Land- 
O-Mat  City,  apprenticed  as  a controller 
repairman.”  He  held  out  his  pudgy 
hands  for  all  to  see.  “Looking  at  these 
fat  hands  you  wouldn’t  think  I could 
do  that  work,  but  I was  one  of  the  best 
they  had.  I’ve  seen  the  time  ships  were 
stacked  up  clear  back  to  the  Sun,  so  it 
seemed,  when  a tube  might  blow  in  Mas- 
ter Approach  Control,  and  all  they  could 
do  was  scream  for  me.  Worked  at  it  for 
seventy  long  years,  saved  my  money, 
and  then  got  to  hankering  to  see  some 
of  those  worlds  where  all  the  ships  came 
from.  And  I’ve  done  it.”  He  grinned. 
“Been  clear  to  the  edge  of  Hell.” 

“And  you  want  to  go  back  to  Earth — 
to  live?”  the  girl  who  had  first  spoken 
said  incredulously.  “I  mean,  after  see- 
ing so  many  of  the  other  worlds?  You 
know,  most  of  them  are  so  much  more 
beautiful  than  Earth — ” She  broke  off 
confusedly. 

But  the  little  fat  man  grinned  again, 
cracked  his  knuckles,  turned  to  the 
port  again  a.s  if  he  could  not  miss  a 


chance  to  see  Earth  skim  by  his  view 
again.  “Not  to  me,  baby,”  he  said  softly, 
“Not  to  me.”  His  eyes  glistened  with  the 
remembrance  of  ten  years  of  wander- 
ing among  the  stars,  but  he  knew  inside 
of  him  that  there  was  nothing  like 
home.  . . . 

A rain  like  all  the  other  Earth  rains 
for  a million  years  washed  down  across 
the  miles  of  concrete  that  had  once  been 
the  plains  of  Kansas,  bringing  in  a 
freshness  and  a wetness  that  was  wel- 
come after  the  boiling  heat  of  that  day. 

As  he  stepped  off  the  lift  that  had 
brought  him  up  three  thousand  feet  in 
less  than  a minute,  Kane  Harsen  walkedf 
through  the  double  doors  and  out  of  the 
air-conditioning  into  that  rain,  and  let 
it  blow  on  his  face  for  minutes.  It  wasn’t 
that  he  considered  himself  an  outdoors- 
man,  it  was  just  tliat  tlie  stuffiness  of 
the  little  apartment  he  and  Karla  shared 
would  sometimes  get  on  his  nerves,  and 
it  was  a little  ritual  for  him  to  get  out 
under  the  stars  each  night  before  his 
shift  started  at  midnight.  And  tonight 
it  had  been  worse  than  ever. 

He  was  sure  that  he  was  still  in  love 
with  Karla,  for  she  was  quite  a p>erson ; 
self-sufficient,  clean,  hard-working,  and 
able  to  use  every  beauty  knack  there 
was  to  keep  herself  desirable.  And  she 
was  desirable,  there  was  no  denying 
that. 

But  her  voice  tonight  kept  ringing  in 
his  ears,  “Just  a drone,  Kane,  that’s  all 
you’ll  ever  be  in  your  job.  They  pay  you 
no  more  than  a bare  livelihood,  for 
they’re  afraid  you’ll  save  too  much  and 
quit.  Why  in  the  world  don’t  you  try 
to  get  in  pilot’s  school?  What  a life  that 
must  be!  Traveling  to  all  the  stars  in 
the  sky,  on  the  move,  out  there  in  space 
where  you  can  get  your  breath.  And 
the  pay ! Most  pilots  retire  before  they 
even  reach  eighty,  with  enough  money 
to  live  where  and  how  they  please  after 
that.  Try  it,  Kane!” 

Kane  simply  couldn’t  bring  himself 
to  tell  her  that  he  had  tried,  but  that 
they  had  turned  him  down,  that  he 
would  never  be  a pilot.  “Just  a little 
heart  noise,”  the  doctors  had  said.  “It’ll 
never  be  anything  serious,  but  you’d  be 


TRAFFIC  61 


unsafe  in  the  strains  of  space.”  Kane 
felt  grim.  That  meant  he  couldn’t  even 
be  a passenger,  was  Earthbound  till  the 
end  of  his  days.  He  didn’t  want  to  tell 
Karla.  He  was  afraid  it  would  be  the 
end  of  her  hopes,  and  then  she  really 
would  be  the  devil  to  live  with,  or  worse 
still,  she  would  leave  him. 

A warning  light  flashed  back  there 
over  the  entrance  to  the  Master  Ap- 
proach Control  Room,  and  Kane  sighed : 
The  rain  felt  good  in  his  face,  and  he 
looked  out  over  the  concrete  ramp.  From 
where  he  stood  the  concrete  ramp 
stretched  for  two  hundred  miles  in  each 
direction,  and  the  part  he  could  see  was 
filled  with  the  flashes  of  light  of  the  lit- 
tle tow  cars  that  maneuvered  the  ships 
after  they  had  made  their  landings,  and 
put  those  ships  in  the  right  berths. 

Kane  look^  up  towards  the  sky;  it 
was  overcast,  and  yet  there  were  bright 
reddish  glaring  flashes  that  spread 
through  those  clouds  as  incoming  ships 
jockeyed  and  waited' and  fired  landing 
bursts  downward  fighting  the  gravity 
of  Earth. 

There  were  eighty  thousand  ships 
above  him,  and  orbiting  around  Earth, 
stacked  up  out  to  the  Moon,  that  he  had 
to  land  tonight.  Ships  that  held  cargo 
for  the  ten  billion  persons  on  Earth; 
ships  that  held  traveling  businessmen 
who  arranged  the  affairs  of  100,000 
planets;  diplomats,  government  offi- 
cials, who  hurried  back  and  forth  to 
report  to  local  governments  what  they 
had  learned  on  the  Mother  planet  Earth 
— tourists,  and  commuters  from  the 
Moon. 

More  than  ten  thou.sand  ships  land- 
ing and  taking  off  each  hour  of  that 
shift,  more  than  8,000,000  persons  who 
would  land  tonight  and  take  off  for  the 
stars.  In  any  given  minute  there  were 
nearly  two-hundred  ships  settling  down 
on  cascading  columns  of  fire  in  their 
assigned  sections  of  the  ramp,  then 
swiftly  they  were  towed  to  elevator 
ramps,  lowered,  and  stowed  in  the  prop- 
er berth  number  of  the  hug;e  Land-0- 
Mat.  It  was  a rule  that  no  ship  remained 
on  the  ramp  for  more  than  one  minute 
after  landing. 


This  Land-O-Mat  was  quite  a struc- 
ture— three  thousand  feet  high,  four 
hundred  miles  square,  it  contained  num- 
bered berths  for  a half  million  ships, 
and  repair  facilities  equal  to  that. 

Below  the  ramp,  underground,  was 
the  huge  Land-O-Mat  City,  with  shops 
that  catered  to  the  cosmopolitan  tastes 
of  the  universe,  and  below  that  were 
the  honeycombed  tubes  of  subway  en- 
trances where  passengers  boarded  the 
swift  subways  that  would  put  them  in 
London,  Moscow,  Yakutsk,  or  Antarcti- 
ca within  an  hour.  No  airships  traveled 
between  Earth  ports ; the  interplan- 
etary-interstellar traffic  was  too  heavy 
for  that. 

Kane  sucked  in  a huge  breath  of 
wind  and  pushed  through  the  en- 
trance to  the  Master  Control  Room.  Red 
Stinson,  who  was  Master  Approach 
Control  Operator  on  the  shift  before 
Kane,  looked  up  and  grinned.  “Never 
worry  about  you,  Harsen,”  he  said.  “Al- 
ways know  you’re  going  to  be  on  time 
and  get  me  out  of  this  mess.” 

Kane  grinned  back.  “What's  the  mess 
tonight?" 

Red  twisted  a dial  below  the  huge 
screen  that  was  before  him,  a dial  that 
set  a thousand  electronic  movements  in 
gear,  flashing  lights,  moving  magnets, 
calculating,  changing — and  out  there  in 
space  the  gjrroscopes  on  a thousand 
ships  moved  a millisecond  in  direction 
and  rocket  blasts  flared  forth. 

“The  whole  of  Section  Four  has  got 
thirty  seconds  behind  in  their  timing,’* 
Red  said  to  Kane.  “Nothing  serious,  but 
we  had  to  throw  in  the  alternate  Sec- 
tion Four  computer  to  handle  the  addi- 
tional load  of  re-calculating  the  orbits 
of  the  thirty  thousand  ships.  And  the 
Section  Four  alternate  computer  had 
not  received  the  final  okay  from  the  in- 
spection department.  I’ve  been  afraid  it 
would  go  and  I would  have  to  order 
fifteen  thousand  ships  back  into  Section 
Five,  and  fifty  thousand  ships  from  Sec- 
tion Five  back  into  hyper-space.  You 
know  what  that  would  mean.” 

Kane  said,  “Good  Grief,  man,  ye.sl" 
Fifty  thousand  ships  back  into  hyper- 


«2  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


space  would  upset  schedules  for  a solid 
week  before  those  ships  could  be  woven 
back  into  landing  schedules  that  op- 
erated at  top  capacity  all  the  time.  Fifty 
thousand  individual  ship  owners  wcHild 
lose  money  because  cargoes  did  not  land 
on  time,  insurance  companies  would  pay 
otf  claims  to  passengers  because  of  in- 
terrupted late  landings,  space-line  op- 
erators would  be  paying  final  claims  five 
years  from  now,  and  a thousand  vitriol- 
ic objections  would  pour  into  the  Fed- 
eration Parliament.  The  lobbyists  would 
have  fresh  ammunition  for  moving  the 
Universal  Capital  away  from  an  Earth 
they  could  claim  was  antiquated — rever- 
berations from  such  an  occurrence 
might  last  for  a generation. 

More  than  ever,  Kane  had  the  feeling 
that  this  entire  traffic  pattern  of  land- 
ings was  a tremendously  complicated 
juggernaut  that  could  not  be  stopped, 
and  when  you  mounted  it  you  went  with 
it,  unable  to  control  its  speed,  barely 
able  to  avoid  disaster  by  constant  nerv- 
ous vigilance  that  kept  it  in  its  stream. 
Sometimes  Kane  felt  that  one  little  cog 
going  wrong  would  cause  the  whole  sys- 
tem to  blow  up  into  such  utter  confusion 
that  the  Empire  would  collapse  and 
men’s  minds  would  re-enter  a Dark  Age. 
And  when  your  shift  started  you  rode 
that  juggernaut  to  heaven  or  hell  for 
eight  hours. 

But  it  had  a fascination,  a moth-to- 
the-flame  attraction  for  Kane.  He  sat 
down  by  Red,  looking  over  the  screen 
before  him,  looking  over  the  verniers 
and  the  push  buttons,  and  the  needles 
making  even  patterns  on  their  graphs. 
It  was  five  minutes  yet  before  his  shift 
started,  but  he  had  to  have  the  situation 
planted  indelibly  on  his  mind  when  Red 
left  it  to  him. 

Red  said  out  of  the  side  of  his  mouth : 
“And  if  that  wasn’t  enough.  Senator 
Gaston  and  his  troupe  are  scheduled  to 
pay  you  a visit  tonight.’’ 

“Gaston!  That  windbag?’’ 

“Be  careful  how  loud  you  say  that. 
He’s  the  fair-haired  boy  in  charge  of 
appropriations  for  this  outfit.  You  know 
how  badly  this  program  needs  new 
equipment  and  new  money.  He’s  facing 


tremendous  pressure  from  his  home 
system  in  Sirius,  where  they  want  the 
Capitol  Building,  and  if  he  could  find  a 
few  flaws  in  our  operations,  he’d  proba- 
bly be  tickled  pink.’’ 

Karla  and  the  apartment  and  his 
dreams  faded  fast  into  the  distance  of 
Kane’s  mind,  a part  of  him  to  be  stowed 
away  in  a quiet  compartment,  the  lid 
closed  down,  not  to  be  opened  until  the 
end  of  the  shift.  He  was  something  else 
now,  the  master  of  the  Approach  Con- 
trol Machines,  a king-pin,  top-cog, 
astride  a man-made  empire  of  auto- 
matic electronic  calculators,  the  man- 
power necessary  to  ride  the  juggema«t 
— and  keep  that  cog  from  slipping. 

In  a few  moments,  it  seemed.  Red  had 
said,  “So  long,  pardner,  safe  landings  P’ 
It  was  the  greeting  and  farewell  among 
traffic  control  men,  and  Kane  was  ab- 
sorbed then  in  his  screens,  and  his  dials 
and  his  push-buttons,  and  eighty  thou- 
sand ships  coming  in. 

Theoretically,  the  machines  were  per- 
fect and  there  was  nothing  left  for  the 
Master  Control  Approach  Operator  to 
do.  Three  square  miles  of  calculating 
machines  absorbing  enough  electric 
power  to  run  several  cities  theoretically 
controlled  and  landed  every  vessel  that 
came  to  Earth  and  departed.  . . . 

The  fat  man  aboard  the  starship 
Orion,  which  decelerated  gently  and 
chased  the  sun  around  the  small,  dull 
planet  of  Earth,  kept  one  eye  cocked  on 
the  port,  and  with  the  other  faced  the 
passengers  who  still  stared  at  him  with 
mild  curiosity,  asking  polite  questions 
to  explain  why  those  little  flashes  of 
light  that  whooshed  by  the  port  came  so 
close  without  hitting  them. 

“You  see,”  he  was  saying,  “as  far  as 
traffic  control  is  concerned,  all  space  is 
divided  into  five  parts.  These  five  sec- 
tors surrounding  Earth  travel  with  the 
Solar  System  through  space,  always 
maintaining  their  same  relative  posi- 
tions to  the  sun,  except  Sector  One  and 
Sector  Two,  which  maintain  their  posi- 
tions relative  to  the  Earth,  assuming  it 
does  not  rotate,  revolve,  and  is  the  cen- 
ter of  the  universe.” 


TRAFFIC  63 


The  fat  man  was  good  at  reducing 
abstract  theories  to  practical  terms,  and 
he  went  on  telling  them:  Sector  One 
was  a block  of  the  heavens  extending 
one  hundred  miles  straight  up  from 
points  two  hundred  miles  out  around 
the  Land-O-Mat,  and  it  was  the  final  sec- 
tion which  ships  seeking  to  land,  en- 
tered. When  ships  entered  it  they  were 
assigned  individual  sections  of  their 
own  corresponding  to  the  numbered 
area  on  the  Land-O-Mat  that  was  theirs, 
and  each  ship  had  an  area  roughly  five 
miles  square  in  which  to  settle  down. 

Sector  Two  included  all  the  space 
around  Earth  in  a sphere  made  by  an 
imaginary  line  two  thousand  miles  out. 
Sector  Three  included  everything  out 
to  the  orbit  of  the  Moon.  Sector  Four 
had  all  the  space  to  the  orbit  of  Mars. 
Sector  Five  had  all  the  space  out  to 
Pluto. 

Beyond  Sector  Five,  the  ship  did  not 
come  under  Earth’s  Traffic  Control ; the 
majority  of  ships  traveling  beyond 
Pluto’s  orbit  were  in  hyper-space  where 
there  was  no  danger  of  collision.  Each 
ship  from  anywhere  in  the  Galactic 
System  scheduled  to  come  to  Earth  filed 
a Master  Flight  Plan  before  leaving, 
and  was  assigned  a point  to  enter  Sec- 
tor Five.  Upon  entering  Sector  Five, 
the  ship  notified  Earth  Control  Station ; 
the  Sector  Five  computer  automatically 
returned  an  orbit  clear  of  possible  col- 
lision with  other  vessels,  and  the  ship 
stayed  under  pilot  control  on  that  orbit 
until  it  entered  Sector  Four.  It  had  to 
stay  under  pilot  control,  for  the  time- 
lag  of  nearly  six  hours  on  communica- 
tion wave  transmission  between  Earth 
and  Pluto  was  too  great. 

Two  special  stations  in  Sector  Five 
forwarded  entrance  schedules  for  each 
hour  to  the  Space  Station  in  charge  of 
Sector  Four;  and  Sector  Four  passed  it 
to  the  Moon  Station  which  controlled 
Sector  Three;  and  the  subsequent  con- 
trol came  from  the  Land-O-Mat  station, 
which  had  Master  Control  over  all  Sta- 
tion approaches. 

In  the  early  stages  of  automatic  con- 
trol, the  time-lag  of  transmission  had 
been  troublesome;  a radar  fix  on  a ship 


showed  where  it  was  a minute,  thirty 
seconds,  or  a second  ago;  but  now  the 
automatic  computer  correctly  calculated 
time-lag  and  gave  exact  positions  in 
orbit  determination.  When  the  pilot  en- 
tered Sector  Three  he  relinquished  con- 
trol over  his  ship  and  the  machines 
made  the  landings.  A ship  usually  took 
four  days  to  go  from  Sector  Five  to 
landing,  so  at  peak  load,  there  were 
nearly  one  million  ships  in  all  Five  sec- 
tors, with  eighty  thousand  in  Sectors 
One,  Two,  and  'Three. 

The  Master  Approach  Control  Opera- 
tor was  in  charge,  but  one  man’s  mind 
couldn’t  keep  up  with  it,  and  nearly  a 
hundred  men  worked  in  charge  of  the 
machines  of  various  sectors  and  their 
subdivisions. 

The  passengers  on  the  Orion  were 
lulled  half  to  sleep  by  the  dry  monotone 
and  the  gentle  tug  of  the  deceleration  at 
the  blood  in  their  bodies,  but  the  girl 
Sorina,  finally  said:  “But  what  if  the 
machines  fail?  What  happens  then?’’ 

The  fat  man  smiled.  “It’s  all  planned 
for,  my  dear.  When  Traffic  Control  ma- 
chines fail,  there’s  always  some  pro- 
vision for  the  ships.  It’s  what  they  call 
failing  safe."  And  he  turned  to  peer 
from  the  port  again,  thinking  of  being 
so  near  to  home. 

The  tension  was  so  great  for  Kane, 
and  he  was  so  pleasantly  and  deeply  ab- 
sorbed in  the  nervous  routine,  that  he 
realized  his  name  had  been  spoken  three 
times  from  behind  before  he  could  re- 
focus his  attention.  The  Station  director 
stood  behind  him  with  a man  who  looked 
so  much  like  a Senator,  he  could  have 
been  nothing  else. 

“Senator  Gaston,’’  the  director  was 
saying,  “this  is  Kane  Harsen,  our  Mas- 
ter Approach  Control  Operator  for  this 
shift.’’ 

The  Senator  leaned  forward  and 
smiled  thinly.  “How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Harsen?’’  he  said  with  the  apparent 
politeness  of  the  Sirian  Worlds. 

Kane  heard  himself  mouthing  formal- 
ities. “Very  well.  Senator.  Things  are 
going  quite  smoothly,  and  I’ve  already 
landed  eighteen  thousand  ships  safely 
tonight.’’ 


64  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


“Wou?”  The  Senator’s  grin  was  still 
thin.  *Tf  you  can  do  it  alone,  will  you 
tell  me  what  the  remainder  of  this  huge 
establishment  is  doing?” 

Kane  smiled,  realizing  his  mistake. 

“Well,  Senator,  you  know  the  old 
rib  about  assigning  a man  to  a task,  get- 
ting another  to  watch  and  see  if  he  does 
it,  and  another  to  watch  the  watcher, 
and  so  on.  That’s  a little  bit  of  what  we 
do  here.  We  never  trust  anything — ma- 
chine or  man.” 

The  Senator  grunted  shortly. 
“H-m-m ! Blasted  thing  looks  automatic 
to  me.  Always  heard  these  machines 
could  think  better  than  a man.  What’s 
the  use  of  having  a hundred  men  (»i 
each  shift — paying  three  hundred  men 
those  salaries,  with  everyone  screaming 
for  economy?” 

Darned  little,  salaries  are  costing, 
Kane  thought.  Kane  himself,  as  Master 
Operator,  got  each  week  only  ten  dol- 
lars more  than  the  lowest  paid  operator 
on  the  staff.  "Well,  machines  do  fail, 
occasionally.  Senator,”  said  Kane. 
“We’ll  grant  that  they  can  out-think, 
out-compute,  out-visualize  any  man,  for 
machines  have  the  ability  to  make  an 
instant  integration  of  a million  objects, 
while  a man  can’t  visualize  more  than 
three.  Yet  we  see  the  purpose  of  ma- 
chines as  that  of  forming  the  million 
details  into  patterns  that  a man  can 
grasp,  and  control.” 

“But  why  does  a man  need  to  control 
the  pattern?  Why  can’t  machines  con- 
trol the  pattern  too?” 

Kane  warmed  up;  he  liked  the  ques- 
tions. "All  right,”  he  said.  "As  an  ex- 
ample, you’ve  got  a ship  coming  out  of 
hyper-space  with  a crew  sick  of  Cyg- 
nian  leprosy.  There  is  no  way  that  the 
ship  can  appeal  to  a machine  for  a quick 
emergency  landing,  which  it  needs.  Re- 
laying its  emergency  to  a man,  it  gets 
attention,  orbit  recalculation,  and  comes 
in  far  ahead  of  schedule.  That’s  the  kind 
of  service  no  machine  can  understand, 
not  being  subject  to  disease.” 

"Yes,  I see  that,”  the  Senator  said. 
“But  we  have  scientists  in  the  Sirian 
system  who  say  they  can  build  a ma- 


chine to  control  even  that.  It  looks  to 
me  as  though  you  are  caught  here  with 
a traffic  control  system  that  is  neither 
completely  modern,  nor  completely  an- 
tiquated, but  a mixture  of  each,  and  you 
are  unable  to  change  over.  Don’t  you 
think  the  answer  is  to  build  a complete- 
ly new  system  from  the  ground  up?” 

Kane  set  his  jaw.  “Not  if  it  is  based- 
on  the  complete  elimination  of  man- 
power. Man  put  these  machines  togeth- 
er ; true,  not  any  one  man,  but  based  on 
knowledge  gained  in  a thousand  years 
of  operations.  As  long  as  you  have  ma- 
chines, you’re  going  to  have  to  have  men 
to  run  them,  master  them.” 

“That’s  true.  Senator,”  the  director 
spoke  up.  “We’ve  found  that  computers 
don’t  limit  a man’s  thinking;  they  ac- 
tually increase  his  ability  to  think.” 

Kane  added:  “A  thousand  years  ago. 
Senator,  man  developed  crude  traffic 
control  systems  such  as  ILS  and  GCA 
to  aid  in  getting  his  airships  on  the 
ground.  There  was  a long  struggle  to 
see  whether  responsibility  for  landing 
would  remain  with  the  pilot  or  go  to  the 
ground  man  with  his  instruments,  and 
the  ground  men  won  out,  for  after  all, 
a pilot’s  job  is  a mere  detail  in  landing 
ten  thousand  ships  an  hour.  Now  ground 
men — skilled  and  trained  ground  men — 
are  the  most  important  factors  in  this 
system.” 

The  Senator  said,  “That’s  still  hard 
to  believe.” 

On  the  good  ship  Orion,  falling  in  to- 
wards Earth  in  Sector  Two  of  the  Mas- 
ter Control  Pattern,  the  fat  man  was 
still  looking  out  the  port.  The  decelera- 
tion was  strong  now,  but  still  the  pas- 
sengers had  not  all  gone  to  their  padded 
bunks  and  straps. 

The  words,  fail  safe,  were  still  in  the 
fat  man’s  mind.  Sometimes  a machine 
does  fail.  And  in  the  days  of  railroading, 
those  first  users  of  automatic  block  sig- 
nals that  formed  the  foundation  of 
traffic  control,  they  had  used  those 
words.  ...  It  did  not  so  much  matter  if 
a machine  failed  as  long  as  it  failed  safe. 

, . . But  when  eighty  thousand  ships 
are  coming  in  for  landings,  in  their  lit- 
tle guided,  pre-calculated  paths  from 


TRAFFIC  65 


the  Moon  to  the  Earth,  a tube  may  blow, 
a power  source  may  fail,  more  likely 
aboard  a ship,  and  then,  it  is  possible, 
it  may  not  fail  safe. 

The  only  warning  the  ten  passengers 
had  was  when  the  fat  man  turned  and 
said,  “I  don’t  think  we’re  decelerating 
fast  enough.” 

His  words  were  cut  off  when  a sud- 
den, violent  surge  of  power  shuddered 
throughout  the  ship,  a sidewise  thrust- 
ing, pushing,  mashing  motion  that 
pressed  him  like  a limp  rag  against  the 
wall,  where  he  could  feel  every  little 
contour,  rivet,  and  bolt  pressing  into  his 
body.  The  ten  passengers  gasped;  one 
man,  unable  to  move  his  head  in  the 
grip  it  was  held,  moved  his  eyes  and 
stared  at  the  broken  bones  sticking  out 
of  the  compound  fracture  in  his  arm. 

And  then  the  push  lessened  until 
they  could  barely  move,  and  they 
knew  that  something  was  terribly 
wrong — some  acceleration  or  decelera- 
tion that  was  not  in  the  book — not  in 
the  machine. 

The  Senator  was  still  standing  be- 
hind Kane  when  the  buzzer  sounded  and 
Kane  switched  on  the  speaker.  “Yes?” 
A Sector  Two  man  said  quickly,  in  an 
even  \rjice:  “Gyro  Controller  on  a ship 
called  the  Orion  in  Tenth  Division,  Sec- 
tor Two,  has  gone  out,  Kane.  Ship  is 
accelerating  and  circling  Earth  in  wild, 
crazy  turns.” 

“You  cleared  her  sector?” 

“Yes,  we  are  clearing  two  sectors, 
have  repairmen  checking  our  machines. 
But  it’s  on  the  ship,  Kane.  Nothing  we 
can  do.” 

“Tell  the  pilot  to  go  on  manual,  and 
we’ll  give  him  an  orbit  back  to  Sector 
Three.” 

“Pilot’s  dead,  Kane.  Acceleration 
killed  him  in  the  first  thrust.  Second 
pilot  is  blotto.  Communications  man  is 
only  one  of  crew  able  to  move.” 

A tricky  problem.  The  diminishing-' 
value  of  pilots  had  cut  crews  to  three 
men  and  one  hostess  on  passenger  ves- 
sels. “Doesn’t  the  Comm  Man  know  how 
to  handle  controls  if  we  give  him  in- 
structions?” 


“Doesn’t  act  like  it,  Kane.” 

Good  grief,  Kane  thought,  a crazy 
ship  accelerating  and  going  into  crazy 
turns  and  orbits  in  a crowded  sector! 

“Is  there  anything  regular  enough  in 
the  turns  so  that  an  orbit  could  be 
plotted  ?” 

“I  don’t  know,  Kane.  Gyro’s  wilder’n 
Hades.  I don’t  think  there’s  a machine 
made  that  could  tell  what  the  ship  will 
do.” 

Kane  said,  “Well,  give  it  ten  minutes 
clearance  on  each  side,  if  the  machine 
can  move  fast  enough.  I’ll  call  you  back.” 

He  switched  off  the  speaker,  and 
thoughts  swirled  in  him.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  three  years  that  a gyro  con- 
troller had  gone  screwy  on  a ship  com- 
ing in;  this  time  it  was  worse  with  no 
pilot  to  take  over  manual.  Now  the  Sec- 
tor Two  computers  were  working  to 
clear  the  space  around  the  crazy  ship, 
trying  to  turn  ships  away,  weave  a pat- 
tern of  acceleration  and  deceleration 
that  would  not  crush  humans,  feeding 
information  back  along  the  line  to  other 
sector  computers  to  hold  up,  slow  up; 
not  crowd  into  Sector  Two. 

When  a thing  as  this  happened,  Kane 
often  got  to  wondering  if  this  were  the 
lost  nail  that  would  lose  the  shoe,  that 
would  lose  the  horse,  that  would  lose 
the  rider,  that  would — He  shook  him- 
self. This  would  take  some  thinking. 
This  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  made 
pilots  wish  for  the  good  old  days  when 
they  made  their  own  landings. 

A ship  with  a hundred  persons 
aboard,  and  the  machine  could  tell  you 
where  it  was,  but  not  where  it  was  go- 
ing to  be,  and  no  matter  how  the  radar 
crackled,  it  couldn’t  control  physical 
matter,  once  the  rapport  with  the  con- 
troller was  gone. 

In  three  minutes  the  Sector  Two 
Chief  called  back.  “It’s  accelerating  so 
fast  that  I can’t  clear  all  the  Sectors, 
Kane!  My  computer  can’t  handle  orbit 
changes  that  fast!” 

“Throw  in  the  alternate!”  Kane  said. 

The  man’s  voice  was  peculiarly  soft. 
“All  right,  Kane.” 

And  Kane  knew  why  the  man  spoke 
queerly.  The  alternate  Sector  Two  com- 


66  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


puter  had  recently  been  repaired  too, 
and  no  one  knew  exactly  what  it  would 
stand. 

A Ion?  time  pa.ssed  then,  and  Kane 
could  not  think  of  the  crazy  ship  and  its 
crazy  gyrations,  for  he  was  filled  sud- 
denly with  other  requests  for  emer- 
gency landings,  for  changes  in  general 
traffic  patterns  due  to  meteorite  show- 
ers— ^routine  business  of  a traffic  con- 
trol man,  the  routine  business  that  de- 
manded individual  concentrated  atten- 
tion that  absorbed  every  convolution  of 
the  mind. 

He  looked  up  at  the  chronometer  and 
saw  that  he  had  been  on  this  shift  for 
five  hours,  that  it  was  suddenly  five 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  Then  he  saw 
that  the  Senator  was  behind  him  still. 
The  Senator  had  been  standing  there  in 
back  of  him,  not  speaking,  but  was  just 
smoking  and  watching  him  work.  And 
be  saw  that  the  Senator’s  face  was  tense 
and  filled  with  strain.  Funny. 

The  Sector  Two  man  called  him  and 
there  was  now  an  element  of  real  fear 
in  his  voice.  “Alternate  computer  won’t 
handle  it  Kane,  it  won’t  take  the  power 
to  recalculate  the  orbit  of  every  ship  in 
Sectw  Two.  I’ve  already  caught  a mis- 
take— fmrty-six  ships  just  landed  in  the 
east  quadrant  only  thirty  seconds  after 
other  ships  and  before  the  quadrant  was 
cleared.  'The  timing  is  shot — something 
is  breaking  down.’’  The  man’s  voice 
sounded  heavy  with  strain. 

Kane  spoke  gruffly  with  an  assur- 
ance he  did  not  feel.  “Take  the 
load  off  the  alternate  then,  Martin. 
Don’t  re-calculate  for  the  Orion.  If  she’s 
clear  ten  minutes  around  that’ll  give  me 
a little  time.  Connect  me  with  the  com- 
munications man  aboard  the  Orion.” 
The  fat  man  on  the  Orion  could  hard- 
ly breathe  where  he  was  plastered 
against  the  wall,  and  first  his  mind  was 
thinking  ironically,  “Ten  years  of  wan- 
dering, and  I can’t  quite  make  it  to 
Earth.”  Gradually  his  mind  told  him 
that  it  was  the  gyro  controller  that  had 
gone  wrong,  that  this  ship  was  a wild 
ehip  without  a brain. 

It  .stirred  forgotten  things  in  hie 


mind,  forgotten  technical  knowledge 
that  had  been  his  life.  He  thought.  Why 
if  I could  get  up  to  the  control  room,  I 
might  fix  the  thing. 

It  took  him  an  hour  and  a half  to  get 
to  the  control  room,  and  he  was  cut, 
bruised  and  bleeding  in  a hundred  places 
on  the  fat  little  body  when  he  made  it 
there.  He  lay  still  on  the  control  room 
floor  for  long  moments,  gasping  in  the 
utter  exhaustion  that  had  come  to  him 
from  the  strength  expended  in  getting 
there.  He  saw  the  pilot  in  his  seat,  the 
head  dangling  limply  with  a broken 
neck,  the  co-pilot  limp  too,  with  blood 
coagulated  on  his  head.  At  the  rear  of 
the  room  he  saw  the  Comm  Man  too, 
passed  out  with  the  strain.  And  further 
back,  the  bulk  of  the  controller  filled 
the  room. 

The  fat  man  dragged  himself  back 
there,  found  little  tools,  a kit  of  replace- 
ment parts,  and  he  thought.  I’ll  be  dog- 
goned ! Machines  haven’t  changed  a bit ! 
'The  fat  pudgy  little  fingers,  weighed 
with  two  gravities,  felt  into  the  con- 
densers, and  coils,  and  vacuum  tubes, 
gentle  and  skillful  fingers  as  they 
worked  with  the  speed  of  old  but  re- 
membered knowledge.  . . . 

Back  on  Earth,  Kane  had  been  try- 
ing for  twenty  minutes  to  raise  the 
Orion  on  the  screen,  when  suddenly  a 
fat,  bloody  face  popped  on  the  screen, 
and  a gritty  voice  .said : “What  the  deuce 
is  the  matter  with  all  that  machinery 
down  there?  Starship  Orion  wants  an 
orbit.  Give  me  a landing.” 

Kane  looked  at  the  face  for  long  min- 
utes, then  he  exclaimed : “Fat  Boy 
Payne!  So  you’re  coming  back  to 
Earth.” 

The  fat  man  looked  out  of  the  screen. 
“Well,  Kane  Harsen,”  he  said.  “Dog- 
gone you.  Haven’t  seen  you  since  I was 
a repairman  with  you  in  Sector  One. 
Ten  years  gone  since  then.”  The  fat  man 
turned.  “Give  me  a landing,  Kane.  Folks 
busted  up  on  this  ship.  Need  a doctor. 
I fixed  your  little  old  toy  computer  on 
this  thing.  Give  me  a landing.”  He 
slumped  over  the  screen. 

But  now  it  did  not  matter,  for  the 
Approach  Control  Machines  had  it  in 


TRAFFIC  67 


their  grasp  again,  reached  out  the  thin 
fingers  that  controlled  matter.  But  the 
Sector  Two  computer  was  busy  sorting 
out  the  mess  that  the  alternate  had 
made,  and  Kane  decided  to  give  this  one 
his  personal  attention.  He  used  a pencil 
and  paper,  a slide  rule,  a simple  calcu- 
lator, did  fifteen  minutes  of  brain  work 
and  got  a landing  orbit  for  one  ship  of 
the  eighty  thousand  that  would  land  to- 
night. When  he  finished  he  punched 
some  buttons,  gave  the  figures  to  the 
Sector  Two  man,  who  would  feed  them 
to  the  controller,  and  the  Orion  would 
be  on  the  Land-O-Mat  in  two  hours. 

It  was  only  then  that  a slack,  a lull, 
came  and  Kane  could  see  the  rosy  dawn 
coming  up  in  the  heavens  of  the  east. 
He  turned  and  saw  the  Senator  sitting 
behind  him  still. 

Kane  managed  a feeble  grin.  “Well, 
Senator,  you’ve  seen  us  work.  What  do 
you  think  of  the  utility  of  men,  now?” 

The  Senator  had  a cigarette  in  his 
mouth.  His  hand  reached  for  it,  and 
Kane  could  see  it  was  shaking  and  - 
seized  the  cigarette  and  jerked  it  away 
in  a nervous  downward  motion.  Kane 
suddenly  saw  that  the  man  was  shaking 
all  over. 

“Kane,  I hadn’t  said  anything,  but 
my  daughter  was  on  the  Orion;  that’s 
the  reason  I came  out  here  tonight,  to 
meet  her.  I was  going  to  scorn  you,  and 
instead  I’ve  sat  here  sweating  with  you, 
feeling  like  I’ve  melted  away  to  noth- 
ing.” The  Senator  smiled  wryly.  “You’ll 
get  your  appropriation  here,  Kane.  I 
think  I’ll  tell  my  scientists  in  Sirius 
they  might  be  able  to  get  ready  for  this 
operation  in  another  thousand  years. 
Don’t  get  the  idea  I think  you’re  per- 
fect, but  I don’t  know,  the  whole  t^h- 
nology  of  this  thing  has  kind  of  got 
under  my  skin  and  I know  you’re  run- 
ning it  the  only  way  it  can  be  run.” 

The  Senator  stood  up.  “I’ve  got  to  go, 
clean  up  before  my  daughter  gets  in. 
But  let  me  shake  your  hand,  Kane.  I 
wouldn’t  have  your  job  for  a million 
credits,  and  yet  I envy  you.  This  thing 
has  got  a fascination  I’ll  never  forget.” 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  tech- 
nician and  politician  bridged  a wide 


gulf  and  came  to  understanding.  Then 
the  Senator  was  gone. 

Kane  went  back  to  the  grind,  and  at 
ten  minutes  to  eight.  Tor  Batson  came 
in  and  Kane  grinned  at  him.  “One  good 
thing  about  you,  Batson,”  he  said,  “is 
that  you’re  never  late — always  on  time 
to  get  me  out  of  this  mess.” 

Batson  grinned.  “What’s  the  mess 
this  morning?” 

OUIETLY  Kane  told  him.  And  then 
at  one  minute  after  eight  he 
dragged  himself  away  and  went  out- 
side to  look  at  the  morning.  The  ramp 
stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
and  ships  thundered  down,  the  cars 
pulled  them,  the  elevators  lowered  them. 
The  rain  had  cleared  away  except  for 
little  puddles  in  the  uneven  places,  and 
the  hot  sun  said  it  was  going  to  heat  up 
again. 

Kane  was  so  tired  that  he  felt  his  eyes 
bulging  out,  and  yet  somehow  a feeling 
of  relaxation  was  sliding  over  him.  It 
was  a feeling  that  came  to  him  every 
morning  after  his  shift,  a feeling  that 
made  him  know  this  work  was  right  for 
him.  He  had  seen  them  carrying  away 
operators  who  had  become  nervous 
wrecks  with  the  strain,  and  yet  he  knew 
that  the  deep  grinding  pull  at  his  nerves 
was  what  he  loved.  The  Senator  had 
spoken  right  when  he  said  it  got  under 
the  skin.  Suddenly  Kane  knew  that  he 
hadn’t  wanted  ever  to  be  a pilot,  a 
chauffeur,  being  only  a tiny  cog  in  a 
huge  system.  He  squared  his  shoulders, 
and  walked  to  the  lift. 

On  the  way  home,  he  opened  a mind 
compartment  where  he  had  stored  his 
homelife,  his  memories  of  Karla,  his 
troubles,  and  began  taking  them  out. 
Into  another  compartment  went  the 
Controller,  the  machines,  and  eighty 
thousand  ships,  where  they  would  stay 
quietly  until  midnight  tonight. 

Karla  was  up  when  he  came  in,  doing 
her  sleeping  while  he  worked.  She  was 
in  a breakfast  robe  at  the  table,  drink- 
ing coffee.  Kane  kissed  her,  and  noticed 
she  was  more  responsive  than  usual.  He 
yawned,  then  suddenly  saw  the  piece 
of  paper  lying  on  the  table  before  her. 


68  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


REJECTION  OF  APPLICATION  FOR  PILOT’S 
TRAINING,  it  read, 

Karla  picked  up  the  paper  and  waved 
it  at  him.  “It  came  in  the  mail,”  she 
said.  “When  I saw  it  was  from  the  Pilot 
Selection  Board,  I thought  maybe  your 
application  had  been  accepted  and  I 
couldn’t  help  opening  it,  Kane.” 

He  stared  at  her,  wondering  at  what 
things  were  in  her  mind. 

“Well?” 

She  smiled,  then  yawned,  and  swept 
her  honey  blonde  hair  back  with  a hand. 
“Well — nothing,”  she  answered.  “You 
weren’t  a pilot  when  I married  you, 
were  you?  The  minute  I thought  you 
were  accepted  I realized  I didn’t  want 
it,  that  there’s  something  about  you,  the 
way  you  are  now,  that  I love,  and  don’t 
want  changed.”  She  came  over  and 
kissed  him. 

Kane  laughed  until  he  felt  silly.  He 


ate  breakfast  with  his  wife,  then  went 
to  bed  and  slept  with  the  peaceful  smile 
of  a man  whose  life  is  full. 

A girl  named  Sorina  dragged  her 
weary  bones  out  of  the  first-aid  station 
that  treated  her  bruises  and  wailed  at 
the  j>erfectly  proportioned  man  who 
stood  beside  her:  “But  I simply  never 
would  have  come  to  Earth,  Jan!  It’s 
such  a dull  world,  and  they  said  the  trip 
was  so  simple.” 

A fat  man  with  a few  bandages  on 
limped  into  the  Master  Approach  Con- 
trol Room,  looked  at  the  long  rows  of 
clicking  machines,  the  flashing  lights, 
the  subdued  hum  of  terrific  electronic 
power  flashing  out  into  space  and  bring- 
ing in  ships  from  Procyon,  and  Centau- 
rus,  and  the  Dog  Star  and  the  rim  of  the 
Milky  Way — and  the  fat  man  grinned 
and  sighed  a long  contented  sigh. 

“It’s  sure  great  to  be  home,”  he  said. 


A Man  Finds  the  Key  to  the  Future  in  the 
Memory  of  a Past  He  Never  Knew! 

That's  the  paradoxical  situation  in  THE  CITADEL  OF  LOST  AGES,  o novel 
which  twists  time  by  the  toil  and  takes  you  to  the  world  of  the  Numi  in  a 
for-distont  future — where  hypnotism  evokes  the  secrets  of  a long-forgotten 
dvilixotionl  Travel  with  the  rebel  Fenway  across  an  Earth  half  in  light, 
half  in  darkness — on  astonishing  Earth  of  strange  psychic  mosteryt 

THE  CITADEL  OF  IMST  AGES 

A IVttvel  by  LEICiH  UKACi&ETT 


FEATURED  NEXT  ISSUEI 


^"‘CHALLENGE 


By  ROBERT  MOORE  WILLIAMS 


WITH  the  conviction  growing  in 
him  that  trouble  was  dead  ahead 
but  without  being  able  to  put  his  finger 
on  its  source,  Sam  McArdle  returned  to 
the  ship.  He  had  gone  out  to  the  inhabi- 
tants of  this  planet  as  an  ambassador 
of  good  will,  a not  unimportant  mission 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  Lyrane  III 
had  landed  in  the  exact  center  of  a huge 


park  in  the  middle  of  their  largest  city 
but  also  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
ship  would  certainly  be  laid  up  here  un- 
til the  screen  generators  could  be  re- 
paired. Until  she  was  repaired,  the 
Lyrane  III  would  be  somewhat  at  the 
mercy  of  the  Congers.  McArdle  tried  to 
imagine  the  meaning  of  mercy  to  them, 
an  effort  which  left  him  with  consider- 


Like  Man  — £ven  Machines  Are  Sometimes  Fallible! 

69 


TO  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


able  heaviness  in  his  mind. 

In  the  control  room,  Ed  Vetch,  his  ex- 
ecutive officer  and  second  in  command, 
said,  “Well,  what  about  it?’’ 

McArdle  eased  himself  into  a chair 
and  shook  his  head.  “I  don’t  like  it,’’  he 
said. 

Vetch  lifted  an  eyebrow.  “Unfriend- 
ly?’’ 

“Un-reacting,”  Sam  answered. 

“Huh?’’ 

“They  just  don’t  react,’’  Sam  ex- 
plained. “’They’re  not  friendly,  nor  are 
they  unfriendly.’’  He  twisted  uncom- 
fortably in  his  chair,  seeking  the  reason 
for  this  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  Con- 
ger race,  spoke  what  seemed  to  him  to  be 
the  astonishing  truth.  “They  weren’t 
even  surprised  when  we  landed.’’ 

“Huh?’’  Vetch  was  astonished  too. 
“Then  space  travel  is  an  old  story  to 
them.’’ 

“Nope,”  Sam  said.  “This  is  the  first 
space  ship  they  have  ever  seen  and  we 
are  the  first  inhabitants  of  any  other 
world  who  have  ever  landed  here.”  He 
looked  out  through  the  view  port  to 
make  certain  again  that  the  Lyrane  III 
was  not  surrounded  by  an  excited  mob 
of  exceedingly  curious  people  come  to  see 
this  marvel,  a ship  from  another  world. 
There  wasn’t  a soul  out  there  in  the 
park. 

“My  gosh,  what’s  wrong  with  ’em?” 
Ed  Vetch  breathed. 

“That’s  what  worries  me,”  Sam  an- 
swered. 

“Maybe  they’re  just  morons,”  Vetch 
suggested,  but  with  no  real  conviction 
in  his  voice. 

Sam  nodded  toward  the  view  port. 
Out  there,  beyond  the  vast  park  in 
which  the  ship  had  come  to  rest,  was 
a magnificent  city.  Tier  on  tier,  it  float- 
ed away  into  the  thin  air  of  this  planet, 
the  product  of  a swarming  race  whose 
technology  in  many  respects  was  equal 
to  or  better  than  the  technology  of 
earth, 

SAM  had  seen  the  people  too.  In  many 
respects,  they  duplicated  the  hu- 
man race.  Except  that  they  weren’t 
curious.  Art,  they  had,  and  an  apprecia- 


tion of  beauty  which  was  revealed  in  the 
sparkling  lakes,  the  winding  walks,  the 
flowered  paths  of  this  park,  and  in  an 
even  greater  degree  in  the  architecture 
of  the  city  itself.  The  people  who  had 
constructed  this  city  were  not  morons. 

“Maybe  the  present  bunch  came  along 
later,  conquered  the  city  builders,  and 
took  over,”  Vetch  said. 

“No.  They  built  the  city.  From  what  I 
gathered,  there  is  no  conquering  or  be- 
ing conquered  here.” 

“Uh?”  Vetch  said.  “It  almost  sounds 
like  heaven.” 

“Almost,”  Sam  McArdle  answered.  He 
was  silent,  thinking.  Back  on  the  Earth 
from  which  they  came,  conquering  and 
being  conquered  were  largely  gone  too. 
Except  for  a few  primitive  regions 
where  native  tribes  still  made  sporadic 
raids  for  women  or  cattle,  following  a 
culture  pattern  that  was  slowly  dying 
out,  the  day  of  the  conqueror  was  gone. 
Once  with  his  legions  and  his  blitzes 
and  his  techniques  of  economic  pene- 
tration, he  had  strutted  across  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth.  But  no  longer. 

Earth  was  peaceful  now,  a minor,  not- 
worth-fighting-for  pawn  in  a bigger 
game.  The  conqueror  had  not  disap- 
peared, he  had  just  grown  bigger.  His 
ambition  included  solar  systems,  the 
star  cluster  off  yonder.  Knowing  some- 
thing of  the  destruction,  the  pain,  the 
denial  of  decent  living,  the  denial  of  life 
itself,  that  went  along  with  the  con- 
queror, McArdle  thought  longingly  of  a 
world  where  there  was  no  conquering  or 
being  conquered.  He  twisted,  uncom- 
fortable and  uneasy,  and  looked  up  into 
the  bright  eyes  of  Vetch. 

“There’s  something  wrong  with 
peace,”  he  said. 

“Such  as?” 

“Such  as  a nervous  system  that  has 
evolved  within  the  framework  of  a way 
of  life  that  included  the  challenge  and 
the  response,  the  conqueror  and  the  con- 
quered. Take  out  the  challenge  and  you 
have  taken  out  the  steam  that  makes 
the  human  jigger  go.  'There’s  something 
wrong  here  on  this  world,  something 
that  I don’t  understand,  and  maybe 
don’t  like.”  His  voice  trailed  into  un- 


THE  CHALLENGE  71 


easy  silence  as  be  sought  a definition 
for  what  was  wrong. 

“Such  as?”  Vetch  said  encouraging- 
ly. Like  a reflex  gesture  echoing  the  un- 
easiness within  him,  Sam  McArdle 
shrugged  expressive  shoulders.  “Such 
as  I don’t  know,”  he  said.  “But  I do 
know  one  thing  that  I want  to  get  this 
crate  away  from  here.  Put  every  man 
to  work  repairing  the  screen  generators 
and  plugging  up  that  hole  in  the  nose.” 

“Right,”  Vetch  said.  Operating  with- 
in the  framework  of  a discipline  that  ap- 
proached the  ultimate  in  avoiding  fric- 
tional losses  resulting  from  a clash  of 
personalities,  the  executive  officer 
moved  quietly  to  obey  his  orders,  leav- 
ing the  captain  alone.  The  officers  and 
the  crew  of  this  ship  had  been  so  care- 
fully picked,  so  carefully  fitted  together 
into  a matrix,  that  discipline  was  not 
needed. 

Sam  McArdle  was  technically  Captain 
McArdle,  but  there  wasn’t  a man  on  the 
ship  who  didn’t  call  him  Sam  and  didn’t 
obey  him  utterly.  If  in  the  background 
the  ghosts  of  ancient  surface  navies 
shook  their  heads  at  calling  the  captain 
by  his  first  name,  swearing  that  such 
familiarity  would  breed  contempt  and 
result  in  a loss  of  discipline,  this  ghost- 
ly gnashing  of  teeth  did  not  in  the  least 
disturb  the  functioning  of  the  personnel 
of  the  Lyrane  111. 

Nor  had  the  sharp  but  short  spurt  of 
fighting  between  this  wandering  scout 
vessel  and  its  equivalent  from  the  con- 
queror now  trying  to  establish  himself 
within  the  system  of  Messier  33  dis- 
turbed the  functioning  of  the  crew,  A 
part  of  a much  vaster  navy,  their  mis- 
sion was  to  scout,  to  fight  if  necessary. 
The  first  they  did  with  aplomb,  the  sec- 
ond within  the  limits  of  their  supply  of 
ammo.  If  hurt,  they  crawled  up  some- 
where to  lick  their  wounds  into  shape 
for  flight  back  to  the  nearest  base.  If 
killed — well,  death  was  nature’s  greatest 
invention,  wasn’t  it?  And  the  fight 
against  it  was  life’s  greatest  and  most 
interesting  gamble. 

Coming  from  the  nose  of  the  ship, 
Sam  McArdle  was  aware  of  bumps  and 
pounding  sounds.  He  didn’t  like  to  re- 


pair that  hole  in  sight  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  this  planet — such  a repair  was 
an  admission  that  the  ship  was  not 
spaceworthy — but  the  hole  itself  was 
also  such  an  admission  and  he  could 
see  no  way  he  could  hide  the  hole  from 
anybody  who  wanted  to  look.  The  catch 
was,  nobody  wanted  to  look. 

Turning  to  the  port,  he  saw  that 
the  ship  had  at  last  gained  one  curi- 
ous onlooker.  But  this  one  wasn’t  very 
curious.  All  he  did  was  squat  in  the 
shade  of  a tree  and  stare  at  the  activ- 
ity going  on  before  him.  McArdle  let  his 
mind  run  back  over  his  conference  with 
the  Congers. 

When  he  had  descended  from  the  ship, 
three  natives  had  been  waiting  for  him, 
patiently,  as  if  he  were  a train  running 
a little  behind  schedule.  They  had  made 
signs  to  him  that  they  were  friendly 
and  he  had  made  signs  back.  Communi- 
cation had  posed  no  problems.  The  three 
Congers  had  brought  two  gadgets  with 
them,  one  a little  black  box  which  they 
consulted  constantly  but  which  they  did 
not  let  him  examine,  the  second  a de- 
vice that  made  telepathy  possible. 

He  had  been  fascinated  with  the 
telepathy  gadget  and  the  three  Congers 
had  patiently  waited  for  his  enthusi- 
asm to  wear  off — like  adults  waiting  for 
a child  to  tire  of  a new  toy,  he  had 
thought.  They  had  brought  the  telep- 
athy gadget  with  them  as  if  they  had 
anticipated  it  would  be  needed,  which 
had  made  him  a little  uneasy.  So  far 
as  he  could  tell,  they  anticipated  too 
damned  much. 

They  had  conducted  him  directly  to 
Mr.  Big  himself,  Valdar,  or  something 
like  that,  had  been  Mr.  Big’s  name.  Val- 
dar had  received  him  graciously  and 
again  he  had  had  the  impression  that 
he  was  running  right  on  schedule.  He 
had  intended  to  ask  permission  to  land 
but  this  permission  had  been  given  be- 
fore it  was  asked,  leaving  him  with  the 
feeling  that  Mr.  Big  had  known  what 
he  was  going  to  ask.  The  entire  inter- 
view had  proceeded  with  ceremonious 
dullness  and  he  had  gotten  the  impres- 
sion that  he  and  Valdar  were  actors 


78  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


reading  a prepared  script.  As  he  talked 
with  the  human,  Valdar  had  constantly 
consulted  a small  black  box  into  which 
was  built  some  sort  of  a screen. 

The  landing  of  the  Lyrane  III,  mark- 
ing a new  age,  with  space  travel  now 
possible,  space  commerce,  and  new  ideas 
by  the  gross,  should  have  impressed 
Mr.  Big,  Sam  had  thought.  But  Mr.  Big 
hadn't  been  impressed.  He  had  been 
bored.  The  council  of  attending  advisors 
had  been  bored.  The  pages  and  servants 
around  the  throne  had  been  bored. 
Every  man  on  the  whole  blasted  planet 
had  probably  been  bored. 

To  Sam  McArdle,  this  had  been  gall- 
ing. Hatred  of  a stranger,  distrust,  an 
effort  to  kill  him,  he  could  have  under- 
stood, but  boredom  never.  Didn’t  they 
understand  he  had  come  from  a world 
far  out  in  space? 

Yes,  they  understood  it  well  enough. 
Valdar  had  yawned.  Sam  McArdle  had 
come  back  to  the  ship  with  a feeling  of 
acute  discomfort. 

Looking  from  the  port,  he  saw  the 
little  Conger  still  squatting  under  his 
tree.  Like  all  the  others,  he  was  consult- 
ing a little  black  box,  and  like  them  he 
was  apparently  bored  stiff. 

Behind  him,  the  door  opened.  Vetch 
entered.  “They’re  setting  up  scaffolding 
now,’’  the  exec  reported.  “The  best  guess 
is  that  maybe  the  job  will  be  done  in 
seventy-two  hours.  Here  is  what  has  to 
be  done.”  McArdle  listened  patiently, 
then  stopped  listening  as  a junior  officer 
began  shouting  in  the  passageway  out- 
side. “Ed!  Ed!  Where  are  you?” 

Ed  Vetch  jumped  to  open  the  door. 
“Here.  What’s  up.” 

“Trouble.  We  were  setting  up  the 
scaffolding.  Something  slipped,  I don’t 
know  what,  and  the  scaffold  fell.” 

“Then  set  it  up  again,”  Vetch  said. 
“Sure.”  The  junior  hesitated.  “The 
trouble  is — it  fell  right  on  top  of  a na- 
tive.” 

“Huhr’ 

“He’s  deader’n  a fish.” 

“Come  on,  Ed,’”  Sam  McArdle  said. 
They  went  on  the  double. 

The  scaffolding  was  tubular  steel.  In 
normal  use,  the  bars  were  used  as  hand- 


holds on  the  walls  of  the  ship,  but  they 
had  been  designed  so  that  in  an  emer- 
gency, they  could  be  screwed  out  of 
place  and  used  to  construct  a scaffold. 
The  scaffold  had  gone  up  about  twenty 
feet,  then  had  fallen.  The  men  working 
on  it  had  jumped  to  safety.  Under  it,  his 
skull  crushed,  was  the  native  that  Sam 
had  seen  sitting  under  a tree.  Five  crew- 
men of  the  Lyrane  III  were  clustered 
around  him.  No  one  else  was  in  sight. 
Under  him,  as  crushed  as  his  skull,  lay 
the  little  black  box  he  had  been  study- 
ing. 

“We  thought  we  had  it  anchored  all 
right  but  the  ground  turned  out  to  be 
soft  and  one  of  the  legs  sank,”  a crew- 
man reported. 

“Uh-huh,”  Sam  said.  “How’d  he  hap- 
pen to  be  under  it  when  it  fell  ? The  last 
I saw  of  him,  he  was  sitting  under  a 
tree.” 

“The  last  time  I noticed  him,  he  was 
sitting  there  too,”  the  crewman  an- 
swered. “But  just  before  the  scaffold 
fell,  he  got  up  and  walked  over  here.  As 
it  started  to  fall,  he  started  to  run — 
straight  toward  it," 

SAM  stared  at  the  crewman  in  bewil- 
derment. Then  he  frowned.  “Did 
you  yell  at  him  to  get  aw-ay  ?”  he  asked. 
“I  nearly  screamed  my  lungs  out.” 
“Did  he  hear  you?” 

“He  didn’t  want  to  hear  me.  He  saw 
the  scaffold  falling,  he  ran  under  it, 
stopped,  and  looked  up  at  it  as  it  fell  on 
top  of  him.” 

“Jumping  jeepers !”  Ed  Vetch 
breathed.  “What  was  he  trying  to  do — 
commit  suicide?” 

“That’s  apparently  what  he  did,”  Sam 
McArdle  said.  Irritation  rose  in  him. 
Whether  the  native  had  died  by  acci- 
dent, intention,  or  as  a result  of  some 
obscure  motivation  that  no  human  mind 
might  be  able  to  understand,  did  not 
alter  the  fact  that  he  was  dead  and  that 
some  reaction  could  be  expected  from 
his  fellows.  Sam  McArdle  did  not  antici- 
pate that  the  Congers  would  pass  out 
medals  for  the  death  of  one  of  their  fel- 
lows. What  would  the  Congers  do 
about  it? 


THE  CHALLENGE  73 


"Did  anyone  see  this?”  he  questioned. 

“So  far  as  I know — no,”  the  crewman 
answered. 

"Then  carry  him  into  the  ship  and  re- 
set the  scaffold,”  McArdle  decided.  “Act 
as  if  nothing  unusual  has  happened.  If 
anyone  turns  up  to  ask  questions,  send 
for  me.  When  the  repair  job  is  complet- 
ed, we’ll  report  to  the  authorities.” 

"Okay,  Sam.”  They  carried  the  little 
native  into  the  ship  and  out  of  sight. 
The  scaffold  was  reset,  safely  this  time, 
and  work  was  resumed.  Three  Congers 
were  observed  walking  leisurely  across 
the  park  toward  the  ship. 

"It’s  the  same  three  that  met  me  the 
first  time,”  McArdle  said. 

“Do  you  suppose — ” Vetch  said,  then 
was  silent. 

The  three  Congers  arrived.  Dressed 
in  flowing  robes,  they  looked  a little 
like  three  Greeks  from  the  Age  of 
Pericles.  One  carried  the  telepath.  The 
second  carried  the  little  black  box. 
The  third  carried  nothing.  He  bowed. 
The  telepath  was  adjusted. 

"This  ship  has  thirty  minutes  in 
which  to  leave  the  planet — for  good,” 
the  third  one  said. 

"What?”  McArdle  said. 

“The  ship  has  thirty  minutes  in  which 
to  leave.” 

“Huh?  I mean — why?  We  were  given 
permission  to  land.” 

“But  you  were  not  given  permission 
to  cause  death.” 

“Eh  ?” 

"You  erected  or  caused  to  be  erected 
an  unstable  structure  which  resulted  in 
the  death  of  one  Sar  Elusion.” 

“Ah-ha!”  Ed  Vetch  breathed.  "They 
know.” 

"But — ” McArdle  said.  “It  was  an  ac- 
cident. We  couldn’t  help  it.  In  effect,  he 
committed  suicide.” 

“There  are  no  accidents,”  was  the 
calm  answer.  “All  is  the  result  of  de- 
sign. One  unwavering  purpose  flows 
through  every  action.” 

“What?”  Sam  said.  A man  by  the 
name  of  Freud  had  once  held  that  thei*e 
were  no  accidents,  that  what  seemed  to 
be  accidental  was  in  reality  an  expres- 
sion of  the  unconscious  wish  of  the  in- 


dividual concerned.  Was  this  what  they 
were  trying  to  say  ? He  tried  to  explain : 
"He  deliberately  ran  under  the  falling 
scaffold.  Our  men  tried  to  stop  him.  We 
did  everything  we  could.”  He  might  as 
well  have  been  talking  to  the  empty  air 
for  all  the  reactions  he  got  from  the 
three  Congers. 

"If  you  are  not  gone  within  the  al- 
lotted time,  we  will  show  you  what  will 
happen,”  they  said. 

The  black  box  was  produced  and  for 
the  first  time  he  was  allowed  to  examine 
it.  Set  within  one  side  was  an  opaque 
screen  like  the  screen  of  a television  set. 
"What  is  that  thing?”  he  said. 

He  got  no  answer.  'The  second  Conger 
bent  over  the  box,  tuning  it  much  as  a 
radio  set  is  tuned,  to  some  distant  broad- 
casting station.  A picture  appeared  on 
the  screen,  the  image  of  the  Lyrane  III 
at  rest  in  the  park. 

"You  will  now  see  what  will  happen,” 
the  third  Conger  said. 

The  screen  showed  the  crew  of  the 
Lyrane  III  making  hasty  preparations 
for  departure.  The  scaffold  was  pulled 
down.  The  ports  were  closed.  With  the 
hole  in  the  nose  still  unrepaired,  the  ship 
rose  hastily  into  the  air.  The  screen 
showed  it  vanishing  in  the  sky  overhead. 

The  image  was  so  nearly  perfect 
that  the  astonished  captain  had  to 
steal  a hasty  side-glance  to  make  cer- 
tain his  ship  was  still  there.  Then  the 
screen  revealed  nothing. 

"The  ship  is  now  beyond  the  scope 
of  futusyn,”  the  third  Conger  said.  “It 
is  gone,  forever.  Thus  you  have  one 
choice — ^to  depart.  Your  second  choice  is 
to  stay  here.  Let  me  show  you  what 
will  happen  if  you  elect  this  alterna- 
tive.” 

The  black  box  was  retuned.  Again  a 
picture  appeared  on  the  screen,  the  ship. 
The  Lyrane  III  remained  where  she  was 
beyond  the  time  limit  allotted  for  de- 
parture. Preparations  for  defense  were 
made,  but  they  were  futile.  The  ship 
was  suddenly  struck  by  explosive  mis- 
siles. Holes  appeared  in  the  hull  and 
heavy  explosion  took  place  inside.  Ed 
.Vetch  and  several  of  the  crewmen  stum-| 


T4  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


bled  out,  the  “exec"  apparently  wounded. 
Then  the  ship  was  quiet.  No  movement 
was  visible.  On  the  screen  time  seemed 
to  telescope  itself  so  that  years  moved 
by  in  the  space  of  a single  second.  Rust 
appeared  on  the  hull,  in  great  brown 
patches,  shrubbery  grew  up  around  the 
ship,  hiding  it. 

M Vetch  whistled  softly.  Sam  Mc- 
Ardle  studied  the  screen  with  frantic 
interest.  Again  the  illusion  was  so  real 
that  he  had  to  look  toward  the  ship  to 
make  certain  it  was  still  there.  “Either 
we  leave  within  thirty  minutes — or  we 
never  leave?  Is  that  the  idea?” 

“That  is  the  choice  you  have,”  he  was 
told. 

“But  supposing  I don't  like  either?” 

“You  will  accept  one  or  the  other. 
V/hat  you  like  is  not  important.” 

“Eh?  You're  sure  of  that?” 

“Very  sure.” 

“But  this  thing — ” He  pointed  to  the 
black  box  within  which  the  screen  was 
now  blank.  “What  is  it?  How  does  it 
work  ?” 

He  got  no  answer.  Instead  the  third 
Conger  bowed  politely,  the  second  picked 
up  the  black  box,  and  the  third  turned 
off  the  telepath.  Like  actors  following  a 
prepared  script,  they  walked  away.  Sam 
McArdle  and  Ed  Vetch  watched  them  go. 
Vetch  made  a gesture  toward  the  pistol 
bolstered  at  his  hip.  McArdle  shook  his 
head.  Vetch  sighed.  “We’ve  just  had  an 
ultimatum,”  Vetch  said. 

“I  know.  But  it  doesn’t  do  any  good 
to  use  a gun  on  messengers.  Their  au- 
thority comes  from  higher  up.  You’ve 
got  to  get  to  Mr.  Big  before  you  can  get 
anything  done.” 

“But  how  can  we  get  to  him?” 

“By  being  invited.  In  this  case,  we 
haven’t  been." 

“Well?” 

Sam  shook  his  head.  “We’re  bucking 
up  against  something  that  is  too  big  for 
us,  something  we  don’t  understand.  We 
don’t  dare  tackle  it.  We’re  going  to  take 
the  first  choice  offered  us — to  get  out  of 
here.” 

“But  the  screens  ?" 

“They  will  either  hold  until  we  get  to 
another  planet — or — ” He  paused,  con- 


sidering the  condition  of  the  screen  gen- 
erators and  the  utter  and  appalling  ne- 
cessity of  these  screens  as  a protection 
against  meteors  in  space.” 

“Or?”  Vetch  urged 
“Or  they  won’t  hold.” 

“In  that  case?” 

“We’ll  try  to  get  Mr.  Big  to  invite  us 
to  .see  him,”  Sam  McArdle  said. 

Well  within  the  allotted  time  limit,  the 
Lyrane  III  lifted  from  the  surface  of 
this  strange  planet.  She  went  easily  and 
safely  through  the  atmosphere,  the  hole 
carefully  blocked  off  behind  air-tight 
doors.  When  she  reached  the  limits  of 
the  atmosphere,  and  lost  the  protection 
of  that  air  blanket,  the  screen  genera- 
tors came  on.  They  wailed  softly  and 
Sam  McArdle  and  every  member  of  the 
crev/  held  their  collective  breaths.  The 
planet  was  a dwindling  globe  far  below 
them  when  the  generators  blew  and  all 
over  the  ship,  alarm  bells  began  ring- 
ing. There  was  no  going  on. 

“Prepare  to  issue  a calling  card  for- 
mally requesting  an  audience  with  Mr. 
Big,”  Sam  McArdle  said,  grimly.  . . . 

IN  THE  throne  room  of  the  Conger 
race,  Valdar  sat  staring  at  the  dual 
screen  in  front  of  him.  It  was  divided 
neatly  into  two  sections.  One  section  re- 
vealed the  projection  from  futusyn,  the 
other  section  revealed  the  reality  as  it 
was  gathered  by  scanning  equipment. 
On  both  screens  the  strange  ship  from 
some  other  world  was  visible.  On  both 
screens  it  was  disappearing  into  the 
space  above  the  planet.  While  he 
watched,  it  disappeared  from  both 
screens.  He  turned  the  knob  that  ac- 
celerated the  time  rate  on  the  futusyn 
screen. 

The  screen  remained  blank.  The  ship, 
then,  would  not  return. 

Valdar  sighed.  He  began  again  con- 
sidering the  importance  of  the  date 
3731,  the  ninth  month,  the  third  day,  at 
three  hours  and  twenty  minutes  past 
sunset,  in  the  time  reckoning  scheme 
of  the  Conger  race,  and  what  would  hap- 
pen then,  and  he  considered  setting  the 
equipment  so  that  again  he  could  watch 
it  happen,  then  decided  against  it  No, 


75 


THE  CHALLENGE 


he  did  not  wish  to  see  it  again.  He  was 
sick  and  tired  of  that  date  3731.  In  the 
bottom  of  his  soul,  he  wished  he  had 
never  heard  of  it. 

He  stared  at  the  dual  screens.  Every 
home  on  the  planet  had  such  a system, 
both  screens  working  from  the  vast 
control  dome  here  in  this  city.  In  addi- 
tion, each  individual  usually  had  one  of 
the  small  black  boxes  with  the  single 
screen  attuned  to  futusyn  only.  The  net 
effect  of  the  total  system  was  to  control 
the  life  of  every  inhabitant  of  the  planet. 

When  futusyn  had  been  invented  and 
put  into  use,  it  was  hailed  as  the  ulti- 
mate achievement  of  Conger  science. 
And  it  had  seemed  to  be  exactly  that, 
for  a time.  Certainly,  by  revealing  the 
choices  open  to  every  individual,  and  the 
consequences  of  these  choices,  it  had 
achieved  complete  stability  in  the  social 
structure.  There  was  a price,  of  course, 
for  their  achievement.  In  the  dark 
depths  of  his  mind,  Valdar  was  finding 
that  price  excessive.  Suddenly  he  sat 
up,  string  with  pop-eyed  horror  at  the 
radar  sci’een  that  v/as  reporting  reality. 

On  that  screen,  the  ship  had  reap- 
peared. 

On  the  futusyn  screen — nothing. 

If  the  ship  was  back,  futusyn  was  no 
longer  to  be  trusted.  Futusyn  had  plain- 
ly said  it  would  not  come  back.  At  the 
fiought,  Valdai'’s  mind  began  to  turn 
frantic  somersaults.  For  the  first  time 
since  futusyn  had  been  perfected,  Val- 
dar yelled  for  his  councilors. 

They  came  nmning.  Mutely  he  point- 
ed at  the  tv/o  screens. 

The  scientists  on  his  staff  looked  and 
looked  again  and  said  in  effect  what  the 
blazes  made  here?  The  philosophers 
looked  and  looked  again  and  said  this 
was  not  possible.  The  generals  looked 
and  looked  again  and  said  this  was  an 
optical  illusion,  that  either  the  scan- 
ning equipment  was  defective  or  it  was 
picking  up  some  unusual  object  that 
looked  like  a ship,  but  obviously  wasn’t. 

As  though  trying  to  avoid  possible  at- 
tack, the  object  that  looked  like  a ship 
moved  with  lightning  speed.  From  it, 
a small  object  was  observed  to  detach 
itself  and  to  follow  a guided  course  down 


toward  the  surface  of  the  planet. 

“Can  that  be  a bomb?"  an  appalled 
scientist  asked. 

“It  only  looks  like  a bomb,”  a general 
answered.  "It  is  actually  nothing ; some 
strange  configuration  of  light  rays.” 

This  strange  configuration  of  light 
rays  hit  the  surface  of  the  planet.  A 
huge  mushroom  of  white  flame  spouted 
upward.  Followed  a roar  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  foundations  of  the  planet.  The 
ground  rolled  in  waves.  In  the  immedi- 
ate vicinity  where  it  struck  was  tremen- 
dous destruction.  Luckily — or  was  this 
design? — it  struck  in  an  unpopulated 
area,  a region  that  futusyn  had  said 
would  one  day  be  devoted  to  the  building 
of  a gigantic  amphitheater.  It  construct- 
ed peirt  of  that  amphitheater — the  hole 
in  the  ground  part. 

In  front  of  Valdar  and  his  councilors 
both  screens  went  blank  as  the  blast 
jarred  sensitive  equipment  out  of  opera- 
tion. As  sweating  technicians,  sud- 
denly called  to  a task  that  had  not  been 
anticipated  for  them,  hastily  repaired 
the  radar  equipment,  Valdar  and  hi.s 
councilors  waited.  When  the  equipment 
had  been  repaired  and  they  saw  the 
hole  in  the  ground,  horror  appeared  on 
their  faces.  Such  titanic  destruction  a.s 
this  they  had  never  witnessed.  Nor  had 
they  ever  anticipated  witnessing  it. 
Hence — honx>r.  Then  a little  by  a little 
horror  began  to  go  away. 

yALDAE  felt  flow  through  him  such 
a release  of  tension  as  he  had  never 
known  in  his  life.  From  some  hiddeii 
well  within  him,  new  energy  seemed  to 
surge  in  waves.  In  the  tense  room  some- 
body whispered.  “Some  new,  some  com 
pletely  unpredictable  factor  must  have 
entered  the  equations.” 

“Wonderful,”  Valdar  said. 

At  first,  they  thought  he  had  gone 
mad.  Then  as  they  realized  what  he 
meant,  siniles  began  to  appear  around 
the  room.  From  somewhere  off  in  the 
distance  there  came  a roar.  The  aroused 
populace  had  seen  what  had  happened 
and  were  taking  such  immediate  action 
as  seemed  advisable.  A signal  aide  hur- 
ried into  the  room.  “The  ship.  Sire,  ie 


76  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


trying  to  communicate  with  you.” 
“Good,"  Valdar  answered.  “What  do 
they  want?” 

The  aide  was  embarrassed.  Such  lan- 
guage, such  thoughts  as  he  had  heard 
from  the  ships  were  unbecoming  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Big.  But  it  was  his  duty 
to  report  exactly.  “They  asked,  Sire,  if 
we  are  willing  to  sit  still  and  let  them 
repair  their  screens,  or  do  we  want  an- 
other dose  of  the  same  medicine?” 
Valdar  permitted  a grin  to  appear  on 
his  face.  "Tell  them,”  he  answered,  “that 
we  will  be  very  happy  to  sit  still.” 
Outside  the  palace  the  roar  grew  loud- 
er. Moving  to  the  window  Valdar  saw 
thousands  of  people  lighting  each  other 
to  get  into  a huge  domed  building  across 
the  way.  An  hour  earlier  this  sight 
would  have  filled  him  with  horror.  Now 
he  observed  it  with  equanamity,  even 
with  satisfaction.  . . . 

Sweating,  Sam  McArdle  set  the  ship 
down  in  the  same  spot  it  had  occupied 
before.  He  turned  to  face  Ed  Vetch. 
“Round  two  goes  to  us.  I want  every  man 
in  the  ship  on  the  job  of  repairing  the 
generators." 

"You  bet,”  Vetch  said.  He  issued  the 
necessary  orders,  then  turned  to  his 
chief.  “Scared  of  round  three,  Sam?” 

“I  don’t  want  there  to  be  any  round 
three,”  McArdle  answered.  “We're  out 
of  calling  cards,  you  know.” 

‘T  know,”  Ed  Vetch  said. 

The  crew  of  the  Lyrane  III  were 
busier  than  the  bees  from  forty  hives 
when  the  deputation  arrived  from  the 
Conger  people.  “The  Big  Shot  himself,” 
the  lookout  reported. 

“Answering  our  invitation,”  Sam  said. 
“Let’s  go  talk.” 

Valdar,  his  councilors  and  his  aides 
waited  outside  the  ship  for  the  humans 
to  put  in  an  appearance.  Sam  and  Ed 
took  their  time.  They  put  on  their  best 
uniforms,  digging  gold  braid  from  long 
unused  lockers.  They  armed  themselves. 
As  if  they  were  in  no  hurry  whatsoever 
and  no  importance  of  any  kind  could  at- 
tach to  this  meeting,  they  strolled 
down  to  meet  Mr.  Big  and  his  boys. 

Mr.  Big  was  smiling.  So  were  the 
boys.  Off  somewhere  in  the  city  there 


was  a roar  as  of  many  voices.  Mr.  Big 
was  not  concerned  about  this  roar.  Nor 
was  Csptain  McArdle  and  Executive  Of- 
ficer Vetch. 

“We  are  pleased  to  co-operate  with 
you  in  every  possible  way.”  Valdar  said. 
“We  will  supply  technical  help,  materi- 
als, anything  you  wish.” 

“That’s  nice,”  C'^ptain  McArdle  said. 

“Food,  supplies,  anything  you  re- 
quire,” Valdar  continued. 

Captain  McArdle  nodded  as  if  this  was 
just  exactly  what  he  had  expected. 

“In  addition,  as  soon  as  it  may  be 
convenient,  we  also  wish  to  establish 
regular  commerce  with  your  race.” 

“Granted,”  Captain  McArdle  said. 
There  was  sweat  on  his  face.  He  wished 
he  could  wipe  it  away  but  decided 
against  trying.  This  full,  complete  co- 
operation worried  him  more  than  de- 
fiance. Were  these  jokers  leading  him 
on?  Did  they  know  the  real  condition 
of  the  ship?  Where  were  their  little 
black  boxes  that  knew  everything? 

‘We  also  wish — ah — to  express  our 
gratitude  for  the — ah — explosion,”  Val- 
dar continued. 

At  the  question.  Captain  McArdle  in- 
stantly b^me  Sam  again.  “Huh  ? 
Gratitude?  What  do  you  mean?”  He 
caught  himself  and  tried  to  force  him- 
self back  again  into  the  character  of 
Captain  McArdle.  It  was  a character 
transformation  he  could  not  quite  man- 
age. ‘T  don’t  understand  this.  A little 
while  ago  you  were  giving  us  choices. 
Now  you  are  expressing  your  gratitude. 
What  makes  here  ?” 

VALDAR  told  him  about  futusyn.  If 
anything,  his  astonishment  grew 
greater.  “Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you 
have  developed  a method  of  forecasting 
the  future?” 

“I  do  mean  that,”  Valdar  answered. 
“And  that  right  down  to  the  last  final 
detail  of  a man’s  life,  you  can  tell  what 
is  going  to  happen  to  him.” 

“Yes.  Futusyn  synthesized  the  vari- 
ous factors  operating  on  him,  combined 
them  with  his  total  personality,  indicat- 
ed the  various  choices  he  had,  and  the 
results  of  each.  When  your  ship  landed 


77 


THE  CHALLENGE 


h«re,  it  forecast  that  one  individual 
would  be  killed  in  an  accident,  and  that 
as  a result  of  this  accident,  you  would 
be  forced  to  depart,  never  to  return.” 
"This  Sar  Klusion  who  got  under  the 
scaffold,  he  knew  it  was  going  to  fall  ?” 
“He  did.” 

"Then  why  didn’t  he  get  out  of  the 
way  ?” 

"Because  he  couldn’t,  Valdar  ex- 
plained, “That  was  th®  way  it  was  in- 
tended to  be.  He  couldn’t  stop  it.” 

“Nonsense,” Sam  gasped. "You  haven’t 
been  forecasting  the  future  of  your  peo- 
ple, you’ve  been  hypnotizing  them !”  He 
broke  off  quickly.  To  him,  unconscious 
hypnosis  seemed  a more  rational  expla- 
nation than  forecasting  the  future,  but 
was  this  the  right  theory?  After  all, 
futusyn  had  said  the  ship  would  leave, 
and  it  had  left!  It  had  come  back  of 
course,  but  he  remembered  only  too 
clearly  why  and  how  that  decision  had 
been  made.  He  stared  at  Valdar.  Mr. 
Big  was  looking  mighty  pleased.  "I  don’t 
get  it,”  Sam  said.  “You  look  too  happy 
about  this.” 

“I  am  happy,”  Valdar  said.  “Futusyn 
has  put  a curse  on  us.  It  has  forecast 
every  action  of  our  lives,  including  the 
day  we  would  each  die.  In  my  case  that 
day  occurs  in  Thirty-Seven-Thirty- 
One — ” Hastily  he  changed  the  tense, 
"It  was  scheduled  to  occur  in  Thirty- 
Seven-Thirty-One.” 

“Was  scheduled?”  Sam  whispered. 
Valdar  jerked  a thumb  over  his  shoul- 
der toward  the  roar  that  was  still  com- 
ing from  the  city.  “It  won’t  do  any  more 
forecasting,”  he  said.  “When  it  was 
proved  wrong  once,  my  people  seemed  to 
feel  they  should  take  matters  into  their 
own  hands.  They’re  over  there  now  de- 
stroying the  machines.  From  the  sound, 
I judge — ” Valdar  groped  for  a strange 
thought  impulse  to  express  what  he  felt, 
groped  and  found  it.  “I  judge  they’re 
having  a mighty  good  time  doing  it.” 
From  ear  to  ear,  Mr.  Big  grinned. 
From  ear  to  ear,  the  councilors  with 
him  grinned.  From  them  an  incubus  had 
been  lifted.  Now  they  would  no  longer 
know  what  choice  they  had  evei’y  min- 
ute of  their  lives.  To  them  was  restored 


— the  challenge  of  the  next  moment. 

Sam  McArdle  stared  at  them.  He 
would  have  liked  to  have  seen  those  mar- 
velous machines  that  made  futusyn  op- 
erate, whether  they  actually  forecast 
the  future  or  hypnotized  their  users  into 
that  belief  did  not  matter.  They  would 
have  been  well  worth  study.  On  second 
thought,  however,  he  decided  this  was 
a privilege  he  would  well  afford  to  fore- 
go. "Very  well,”  he  snapped,  again  in  the 
character  of  Captain  McArdle.  “Your 
requests  are  granted.  The  audience  is 
ended.”  Still  grinning,  Valdar  and  his 
councilors  walked  away. 

Back  inside  the  ship,  Sam  McArdle 
faced  Ed  Vetch.  “I  gather,”  Vetch  said 
slowly,  "that  this  futusyn  was  some 
kind  of  a mechanical  and  mathematical 
brain  that  took  into  account  all  known 
factors,  made  allowance  for  the  un- 
known factors,  synthesized  the  result, 
and  forecast  the  future.” 

Sam  nodded. 

"And  when  it  failed,  it  made  every- 
body happy,  including  us?” 

"Including’  definitely  me,”  Sam  said. 

“But  the  thing  1 want  to  know,”  Vetch 
continued,  “is  what  it  would  have  fore- 
cast if  certain  unknown  factors  had  been 
available  to  it?” 

“Such  as?” 

“Such  as  the  factor  of  the  collapse  of 
our  screen  generators  and  the  factor 
that  without  screens,  we  could  not  cross 
space  ?” 

"I  don’t  know,”  Sam  answered. 

"And  what  would  it  have  forecast  if 
it  had  had  available  the  information  that 
we  had  only  one  atomic  projectile  left 
over  after  our  last  fight,  that  when  we 
had  shot  off  our  big  stick,  we  were 
capable  of  no  further  offensive  action.” 

"I  don’t  know  that  either,”  Sam  an- 
swered. “I  don’t  want  to  know  it.  Shut 
up  now  and  let  me  rest.”  He  sighed.  Ke- 
membering  the  look  of  gratitude  on  Val- 
dar’s  face,  an  expression  which  had  in- 
dicated that  an  intolerable  burden  had 
finally  been  lifted,  he  knew  there  was 
one  thing  he  did  not  want  to  know — the 
future. 

Let  the  next  moment  bring  on  its 
ehallenge ! That  way  a man  stayed  alive. 


First  Person 


iSingular 

a noTelet  ERIC  FRANK  RFSRSELE 

CHAPTER  I 
New  Planet 


The  new  planet  could  be  seen  as  a 
dark  disk  surrounded  by  a glowing 
nimbus.  Its  halo  was  created  by  the 
small  red  sun  burning  far  behind  it. 
There  were  other  spheres  in  this  same 
locality,  some  with  many  satellites  and 
one — a glorious  sight — with  multi- 
colored rings.  Sensed  by  the  instru- 
ments, although  not  from  this  angle 
evident  to  the  eyes,  was  a dangerous 
belt  of  rocks  rushing  helter-skelter 
through  the  void  and  forming  the  reef 
of  the  stars. 

Quivering  and  re4-tailed,  the  long 
particle-scarred  space-ship  had  tilted 
high  above  the  reef  and  was  now  head- 
ing for  the  nimbus.  There  was  another 
smaller  paler  halo  near  to  the  objective, 
sharing  its  orbit,  indicative  of  an  almost 
airless  moon. 

Seated  behind  the  bow  observation 
port.  Captain  Rafel  twisted  around  as 
Edham  came  into  the  cabin.  He  said,  “I 
summoned  you  forward,  thinking  you 
might  like  first  view.  It  has  just  expand- 
ed sufficiently  for  straight  vision.”  He 


pointed  into  the  sparkling  darkness. 
“There  it  is." 

Taking  a seat  beside  the  commander. 
Selected  Granor  Edham  looked  at  the 
thin  circle  shining  upon  the  backdrop  of 
creation.  The  picture  was  unsatisfactory 
in  that  it  told  little.  All  the  same  it 
meant  enough.  It  was  a dim,  ghostly 
lamp  marking  the  end  of  his  trail. 

It  represented  the  purpose  for  which 
he  had  been  chosen  and,  for  all  he  knew, 
the  specific  function  for  which  he  had 
been  conceived  and  born.  That  fara- 
way light,  pale,  wan  and  beckoning,  sur- 
rounded the  hidden  fact  of  fate.  It 
marked  the  site  of  death  or  glory.  It 
was  the  cradle — or  the  grave. 

His  young,  strong  and  decidedly  stub- 
born features  did  not  change  expres- 
sion while  his  gaze  remained  leveled 
forward.  Rafel  was  watching  him  and 
he  was  aware  of  the  scrutiny  but  this 
had  nothing  to  do  with  his  grim  phleg- 
maticism.  Either  he  was  peculiarly  in- 
sensitive or  had  superb  control  of  his 
dnotions,  for  he  gave  Rafel  nothing  to 

7« 


Edham  waa  a trained  interplaneiarj  pioneer, 
bnt  ex7en  he  and  his  chosen  mate  were  nnahle 

to  make  their  worid  a fit  place  to  live  ini 


79 


80  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


go  by.  His  face  remained  set,  just  a lit- 
tle cold,  a little  forbidding,  and  his  eyes 
were  steady,  unwinking. 

RAFEL  said  quietly,  “We’ll  be  there 
in  about  two  hundred  tempers  by 
the  clock.”  He  waited  for  comment, 
watching,  watching.  There  was  no  re- 
mark, not  even  the  quirk  of  an  eye- 
brow. The  other’s  countenance  might 
have  been  carved  in  rock.  Rafel  went  on, 
his  manner  verging  upon  the  paternal, 
“You  speak  but  seldom.  Once  I saw  you 
smile  and  that  I shall  always  remember. 
I have  never  heard  you  laugh.” 

“I  do  my  laughing  inside  myself." 
“But  not  often,”  pursued  Rafel.  “Not 
as  frequently  as  others  do.” 

“Not  all  are  the  same,”  Edham  ob- 
served. 

“Of  course  not.  There  are  differences. 
So  long  as  we  can  lay  claim  to  be  indi- 
viduals there  must  be  differences.  There- 
fore some  laugh  and  some  weep.” 

In  the  same  even  unaccentuated  tones, 
Edham  asked,  “Have  you  wept?” 

Rafel  leaned  back  in  his  air-cushioned 
seat  and  eyed  the  stars.  He  had  thin 
aquiline  features  and  the  large  lumi- 
nous optics  of  the  highly  intelligent. 
The  eyes  were  upon  the  stars  without 
seeing  them. 

“Six  times  or  perhaps  seven.  Please 
do  not  ask  me  when,  where  or  why.” 

“I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  do 
so.  One  cannot  seize  part  of  another 
man’s  heart.”  For  the  first  time  Edham 
showed  hint  of  expression,  no  more 
than  a narrowing  of  the  eyes,  a slight 
Jiardening  of  the  jaw  muscles.  “But  if 
ever  the  time  comes  to  weep  for  me  it 
would  be  well  to  remember  something.” 
“Such  as?” 

“I  shall  be  laughing.” 

Rafel  said  soberly,  “I  hope  you  will, 
I hope  you  will.”  He  hesitated,  contin- 
ued, “No  one  sees  himself  truly  pic- 
tured in  the  mirror  of  another’s  mind. 
Sometimes  one  is  given  to  wonder  how 
one  looks. 

“Has  one  the  faults  and  virtues  of 
which  he  is  conscious  or  do  his  fellows 
see  some  faults  as  virtues,  some  virtues 
as  faults?  Do  others  see  additional  fac- 


ulties not  apparent  to  their  possessor?  I 
am  the  captain  of  my  ship  but  what  sort 
of  a captain  am  I to  my  crew — good, 
bad  or  indifferent?” 

“It  is  of  little  consequence.  The  shape 
is  set.” 

“Bear  with  me.  I am  leading  up  to 
something.  Do  you  mind  if  I put  a per- 
sonal question  ?” 

“I  mind  nothing,”  said  Edham. 
“Would  I be  where  I am,  going  where 
I'm  going,  if  I had  cares,  susceptibili- 
ties?” 

“You  are  treading  my  conversation- 
al path  a little  ahead  of  me,”  Rafel  told 
him.  “What  I would  like  to  ask  you  is 
this — have  you  ever  suspected  yourself 
of  unsociability?” 

“I  do  not  suspect  it — I know  it.”  Ed- 
ham turned  his  head,  looked  straight  at 
him.  “During  and  since  childhood  I have 
not  mixed  quite  as  others  have  mixed 
and  such  mixing  as  I have  done  has  been 
done  self-consciously.  Sometimes  I 
have  wondered  whether  it  is  an  inferior- 
ity complex  or  sheer  unsociability. 

“I  console  myself  with  the  thought 
that  I am  not  anti-social.  I like  and  en- 
joy my  fellows — providing  there  are  not 
too  many  at  one  time.  I have  never  liked 
crowds.”  His  dark  gray  orbs  studied 
Rafel?  “Why  do  you  ask?” 

The  other  gave  him  a slow  smile. 
“You  console  yourself  because  you  think 
your  character  at  fault  or  suspect  that 
others  consider  it  faulty.  Is  it  a true 
flaw?”  He  waved  his  hand  at  the  envel- 
oping cosmos.  “In  the  big  cities,  per- 
haps. Out  here,  no!  Out  here  it  is  a 
virtue.” 

Edham  said  nothing. 

“You  are  a Selected  Granor,”  Rafel 
pointed  out.  “A  chosen  son  born  under 
the  sun  called  Di.  Selection  is  not  based 
on  idle  whims.  It  is  a careful  sifting 
from  the  mass  of  Di’s  children,  a sorting 
out  of  the  hardy  pioneering  types,  the 
ones  who  may  be  restless,  out-of-place, 
unsocial  in  the  cities. 

“But  on  the  loneliest  frontiers — ah!” 
He  spread  expressive  hands.  “There, 
they  come  into  their  own.  They  are  in- 
dependent, self-reliant,  they  do  not 
mourn  for  the  comfort  of  the  crowd.” 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  81 


Edham  offered  no  remark. 

"In  the  College  of  Granors  is  a great 
obelisk  bearing  eighteen  hundred  hon- 
ored names,”  Rafel  mused  reminiscent- 
ly. "I  have  read  them  as  doubtless  you 
have  read  them.  Every  man- jack  was 
much  like  you.” 

"That  is  gratifying.”  Edham  offered 
it  with  glum  humor  as  if  he  were  laugh- 
ing inside  of  himself.  His  gray  eyes  met 
RafeTs  again.  "Because  every  man-jack 
is  dead.” 

The  nimbus  had  grown  to  sky-filling 
size  and  had  resolved  itself  to  an  atmos- 
phere heavily  clouded.  There  was  a blaze 
of  crimson  light  and  an  awful  roaring 
and  a frantic  scattering  of  thunderheads 
as  the  space-ship  came  cautiously 
through  the  blanket.  A huge  saucer- 
like object,  fat  in  its  center,  thin  at  the 
edge,  the  ship  lowered  amid  a spume 
of  fire. 

Jungle  below  sent  up  trunks  and 
fronds  and  greeny  reaching  arms. 
Steam  came  from  it  and  vegetable 
warmth  and  cloying  odors  mingled  with 
the  stench  of  noisome  things  rotting  in 
the  dark.  Living  shapes  came  up  with 
the  vapor  and  the  smells,  flying,  flutter- 
ing, flapping  away,  some  dexterously, 
some  with  the  ungainly  awkwardness  of 
creations  ill-conceived,  some  with  shrill 
screechings  or  harsh  cries. 

Other  entities  that  could  not  fly,  land- 
bound  and  raging,  slung  or  blundered 
through  the  undergrowth  and  howled 
their  hatred  at  each  other  and  at  the 
monster  in  the  air. 

For  a little  while  the  vessel  hung 
half  a mile  above  hell,  uncounta- 
ble miles  below  heaven.  The  superheated 
clouds  it  had  .thrust  aside  had  now 
swung  back  together,  closing  the  gap 
and  sending  down  a torrent  of  warm 
rain. 

The  downpour  made  an  angry  rattle 
on  the  space-ship’s  topside  and  venturis 
bellowed  and  the  jungle  screamed.  More 
clouds  in  the  distance,  black  and  bloat- 
ed, were  drifting  to  the  aid  of  their 
fellows,  rumbling  from  time  to  time  and 
casting  vivid  shafts  across  the  sky. 
Planetary  Surveyor  John  was  in  the 


underbelly  blister  when  Edham  joined 
him.  Together  they  looked  down  upon 
the  wetness  and  the  tangled  green. 

"You  can  blame  me  for  this,”  said 
Jolin.  “I  pronounced  it  possible.  Every 
time  I declare  a planet  to  be  possible  the 
decision  fidgets  within  my  conscience.” 
“That  is  natural,”  Edham  soothed. 
“Since  you  will  not  live  long  enough  to 
see  the  end  result  you  must  feel  the 
weight  of  uncertainty.  But  why  worry  ? 
No  man  can  do  more  than  his  best.” 

“I  have  seen  failures,”  Jolin  observed 
moodily.  "That  is  the  curse  of  it.  Fail- 
ures can  and  do  become  apparent  swiftly 
enough  to  damn  my  judgment.  The  suc- 
cesses are  long-term  ones,  so  long  that 
they  will  be  knoAvn  only  to  my  grand- 
sons’ grandsons.” 

“It  is  frustrating,”  agreed  Edham. 
"What  a pity  that  we  have  never 
achieved  that  time-travel  which  Kal- 
teniel  is  so  fond  of  depicting  in  his  visi- 
scrolls.  You  could  then  go  forward  many 
centuries  and  see  precisely  where  you 
have  done  well,  where  you  have  erred.” 
"Kalteniel  irks  me  now  and  again.” 
Jolin  shook  his  head  in  mild  condemna- 
tion. “Take  his  supposedly  more  plausi- 
ble stories  of  space-travel.  He  dumps 
people  here,  dumps  them  there,  keeps 
them  alive  in  spite  of  every  adverse  cir- 
cumstance, makes  them  perform  all 
sorts  of  antics  as  if  the  fundamental 
problem  of  existence  were  no  problem  at 
all.  Life  isn’t  so  resilient.  It’s  precari- 
ous. It  is  balanced  by  margins  incredi- 
bly fine.  If  it  were  otherwise  you  and  I 
would  have  different  jobs.” 

Edham  offered  no  comment. 

“We  are  life-forms  delicately  held 
within  ten  million  tiny  and  elusive  cir- 
cumstances,” Jolin  went  on.  “One  small 
item,  one  seemingly  insignificant  fea- 
ture, can  create  the  bias  that  kills.  On 
one  otherwise  innocent  world  it  is  the 
existence  in  its  atmosphere  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly minute  trace  of  gas  with  ac- 
cumulative properties. 

“On  another  it  is  an  unsuspected  un- 
detected virus  in  the  water.”  He  glanced 
at  the  other.  "A  few  Di-born  plants 
grew  erratically  but  clung  to  life  on 
Theta  Ten.  Far  more  would  not.  They 


82  THRnXING  WONDER  STORIES 


lacked  only  a vague  trace  of  copper  in 
the  earth." 

“Who  can  measure  the  unknown?” 
said  Edham. 

“And  the  same  is  true  in  reverse.” 
John  nodded  toward  the  jungle.  “In  the 
Di-system  some  of  those  plants  might 
flourish,  others  might  contrive  to  exist 
by  changing  form  to  suit  slightly  differ- 
ent conditions — but  many  might  wither 
and  die  for  lack  of  one  titanium  atom  in 
each  ten  thousand  molecules  of  soil — 
or  for  lack  of  something  else  equally  dis- 
persed.” 

“I  have  been  told  all  this,”  Edham  re- 
minded. “I  do  not  fear  the  death  of 
metabolic  imbalance.  By  all  accounts  it 
comes  insidiously,  without  pain.”  Cold- 
eyed,  he  studied  the  world  beneath. 

“But  I do  dislike  the  notion  of  invol- 
untary change.  Admittedly  one  sur- 
vives when  gradually  altered  by  Nature 
to  fit  the  new  framework  but  one  can- 
not be  sure  of  the  manner  of  one's 
change  or  the  picture  it  presents  in  the 
end.  There  are  so  many  possibilities, 
some  of  them  repulsive.” 

"Yes.”  John  admitted  it  solemnly. 
“It  is  that  I would  find  the  most  repug- 
nant— alteration  out  of  recognition.  It 
is  death  which  is  not  death.  It  is  sev- 
erance from  one’s  own  kind  plus  the  tor- 
ment of  being  something  strange  and 
new  amid  older  unchanged  life-forms 
that  hate  the  strange  and  new.  It  is  ut- 
ter loneliness.”  He  shuddered  without 
shame.  “I  could  not  bear  it.” 

“I  could,”  said  Edham,  “if  absolute- 
ly necessary.”  He  paused,  added  in  the 
same  flat  voice,  “For  a while.” 

Rafel  changed  the  subject  by  appear- 
ing at  the  blister.  “That  is  a fair  sam- 
ple down  below.  Most  of  the  planet  is 
the  same.  It  spawns  ferociously.”  He 
cupped  his  chin  in  his  hand,  regarded 
the  tangle  of  life  for  awhile,  then  said, 
“We  cannot  sit  down  in  any  old  place. 
We’ll  search  the  world  and  make  a land- 
ing in  the  most  attractive  spot.” 

Edham  said,  “Or  the  least  unattrac- 
tive.” 

He  did  "not  smile  when  Rafel  looked 
at  him  as  if  striving  to  discern  what 
lay  behind  the  mask.  He  was  accustomed 


to  the  long  penetrating  gaze  of  those 
large  eyes.  As  always  it  was  an  attempt- 
ed estimating — and  none  can  weigh  the 
soul.  So  he  met  Rafel’s  questing  orbs 
with  a tantalizing  blankness  that  pro- 
vided inward  amusement  for  himself 
but  did  not  irritate  the  other. 

“Perhaps  you  are  right,”  conceded 
Rafel.  He  shrugged  and  went  away. 

Presently  the  venturis  lengthened 
their  blasts  to  a multitude  of  fire-spears. 
The  jungle  leaves  swayed  and  cowered 
while  unseen  forms  beneath  them  sent 
up  a cacophony  of  noise. 

The  ship  soared  a mile  higher,  moved 
forward.  The  clouds  stabbed  it  with  hot 
forks. 


CHAPTER  II 
Sphere  of  Wrath 


PARALLELING  the  equator  on  a 
route  where  the  sub-tropics  merged 
into  the  temperate  zone,  the  Disian  ves- 
sel traveled  at  sedate  pace.  There  was 
no  need  for  great  speed,  no  urgency.  Ac- 
curate observation  of  the  land  was  the 
prime  purpose  and  one  cannot  find 
earthly  sanctuary  at  high  velocity.  So 
the  ship  roamed  on,  circumnavigating 
the  world  four  times  while  its  crew 
watched  and  waited  for  a haven  of  gen- 
tleness in  this  domain  of  savagery. 

It  was  a sphere  of  wrath,  hot,  violent 
and  seething  with  the  sperm  of  a mil- 
lion things,  great  and  small.  Its  clouds 
hung  black  and  belly-bloated.  Its  trees 
climbed  upon  the  bodies  of  their  fore- 
bears as  they  fought  hugely  toward  the 
blanketed  sun. 

Its  animal  forms  were  drinkers  of 
blood,  eaters  of  meat,  feeders  upon  alt 
other  kinds,  upon  their  own  kind  and 
upon  their  own  young.  They  battled  and 
copulated  with  an  appalling  frenzy, 
howling  in  labor,  screaming  in  death 
and  giving  up  their  offal. 

There  was  a horrid  pseudo-life  even 
beneath  the  earth.  In  certain  places  the 
surface  crawled  and  rolled  and  heaved 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  83 


while  great  fissures  opened  and  steam 
burst  forth.  A river  bent  dov/n  into  a 
hole  and  was  spewed  out  boiling. 

Topless  mountains  volleyed  meteor- 
streams  that  curved  through  the  clouds 
and  fired  the  jungle.  The  quivering  sur- 
face emitted  tremendous  groans  and  the 
river  hissed  deafeningly  and  the  moun- 
tains cannonaded  again  and  again  and 
again. 

The  atmosphere  was  heavy,  thick, 
moist  and  somehow  enerv'ating  and  in- 
vigorating at  one  and  the  same  time.  It 
was  invisibly  striated  with  smells — the 
odors  of  wood-rot,  wet  leaves,  sulphur, 
steam,  crushed  funguses,  burning  bark, 
cooling  lava,  and  decay. 

To  search  all  this  for  a resting  place 
was  to  seek  a lesser  hell  and  that  they 
found  on  the  fourth  time  round.  There 
was  a raised  valley  between  rounded 
hills  with  slow-moving  yellow  rivers 
flowing  at  either  side.  The  valley  was 
broad  and  large — the  hills  silent,  with- 
out inward  fires.  No  steam  arose  from 
vents  in  the  solidly  founded  ground. 

The  trees,  shrubs,  vines  and  creepers 
were  all  present  together  with  the  hot- 
blooded  things  that  hunted  beneath 
them.  The  same  smells  came  up,  the 
same  noises.  But  purely  by  contrast 
with  other  parts  of  the  world  the  val- 
ley seemed  a little  more  sheltered,  a lit- 
tle more  stable,  a little  less  racked  with 
the  strains  of  competing  life. 

Lov/ering  his  vessel.  Captain  Rafel 
took  it  along  the  valley  with  assault- 
beams  blazing  at  full  intensity.  Every 
living  thing  beneath  promptly  resolved 
itself  to  an  ash  so  fine  that  much  hung 
suspended  while  some  slowly  settled. 

The  trees  and  the  tangles  beneath  the 
trees  and  the  monsters  who  lurked  in 
the  tangles  all  became  ash.  From  one 
end  of  the  valley  to  the  other,  all  ash. 
From  hill-base  to  hill-base,  nothing  but 
thin  unsolid  stalks  of  ash  quavering  like 
new-born  ghosts.  The  very  ground  was 
sterilized  to  a depth  of  twenty  feet. 

They  ripped  a cloud  and  rain  came 
dov/n  and  laid  the  reluctant  dust.  Over 
a smaller  central  area  of  the  valley  they 
beam-baked  the  mud  so  formed  and  con- 
verted it  to  the  hard  cake  of  an  emer- 


gency landing  place.  On  this  the  ship 
sat,  touching  soil  lightly,  letting  its 
weight  be  felt  gradually  and  forming  an 
earthy  cup  in  which  to  rest. 

The  crew  emerged,  six  hundred 
strong.  They  knew  exactly  what  to  do 
and  needed  no  orders.  It  was  a familiar 
task — ^they  had  planted  a Granor  many 
times  before. 

Dragging  out  their  machines,  the 
wall-builders  began  to  cut  huge  stone 
blocks  from  the  hills,  to  move  them 
along  and  around  the  valley,  to  mount 
them  one  upon  another  and  fuse  them 
together.  Heavily  armed,  the  guards 
squads  patrolled  beyond  them  near  the 
burned  rim  of  the  jungle  and  kept  hos- 
tile shapes  at  bay.  Well  inside  the  walls 
the  prefab-erectors  busied  themselves 
assembling  the  sections  of  a small,  com- 
pact house. 

The  biological  party  divided  itself, 
extracted  from  the  ship’s  cargo  space  a 
load  of  Disian  seeds,  tubers,  cuttings, 
shoots  and  baby  plants.  These  they  un- 
wrapped with  loving  care  and  proceeded 
to  set  in  the  alien  earth  according  to  a 
scheme  conceived  long  in  the  past  and 
executed  time  and  time  again  in  places 
spread  across  half  creation’s  span. 

Rafel  hung  around,  watching.  The 
wall  arose  and  a raucous  antagonism 
beyond  the  wall  was  quietened  with  a 
distant  blast  and  the  momentary  shine 
of  a beam.  The  house  swung  together, 
every  addition  making  it  more  like  a 
house.  A quadruple  row  of  tiny  green 
growths  already  stretched  from  his  feet 
to  the  base  of  the  eastward  wall.  More 
plants,  larger  and  darker,  were  being 
set  beyond  them. 

“This  performance,  I presume,  has 
the  boredom  of  repetition,’’  suggested 
Edham,  joining  him. 

“Not  at  all.  I look  at  today — but  I see 
tomorrow.’’  He  glanced  at  the  other, 
his  eyes  bright,  luminous.  “What  do  you 
see  ?’’ 

Edham  thought  a moment,  said,  “I 
am  given  to  visualize  a few  lines 
from  that  ancient  saga  called  The  Gra- 
nor of  Theta  Ten.  Doubtless  they  are 
familiar  to  you.”  He  carried  on  and  re- 


84  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


cited  them,  speaking  with  a peculiar 
lack  of  emotion  that  somehow  lent  point 
to  the  words. 

“They  labor’d  withovi  rest  or  cease 
To  make  the  land  more  fair, 

And  builded  him  a place  of  peace 
Five  thousand  cvbits  sqitare." 

“The  verse  is  appropriate,”  said  Ra- 
fel.  “It  cannot  be  otherwise  since  the 
technique  has  remained  the  same.” 

“But  not  the  tomorrows?" 

“Not  the  tomorrows,”  Rafel  admit- 
ted with  some  reluctance.  “Nature  will 
not  have  us  everywhere.” 

“Nor  have  us  exactly  as  we  are.” 
“Sometimes.”  Rafel  felt  that  he  was 
being  pushed  where  he  had  no  desire  to 
go.  “And  sometimes  not.”  He  counter- 
pushed  with  a proposal.  “Come  with  me 
and  explore  beyond  the  walls.” 

“It  is  a useful  idea,”  said  Edham,  be- 
traying no  hint  of  humor.  “One  should 
know  one’s  neighbors.” 

Getting  two  pairs  of  scout-wings  frcrni 
the  ship  they  struggled  into  the  har- 
ness, each  tightening  the  other’s  buck- 
les. The  wings  swept  white  and  gleam- 
ing from  their  shoulders  as  they 
switched  on  the  tiny  propulsors  and 
soared.  There  was  a certain  trickiness 
in  using  this  personal  mode  of  flight, 
each  user’s  pleasure  being  proportionate 
to  his  own  dexterity. 

Crossing  the  northward  wall,  already 
man-height  and  still  growing,  they 
floated  wide-winged  above  the  jungle’s 
trees.  Their  closer  approach  made  visi- 
ble many  things  formerly  hidden 
though  others  lurked  lower  and  re- 
mained unseen.  There  were  great  worms 
in  some  tree-tops,  sinuous,  sliding, 
many-colored  creatures  that  writhed  up 
the  trunks  and  lay  along  idle  branch^ 
and  stared  with  b^dy  unblinking  eyes. 
There  were  other  entities,  barrel-bod- 
ied, beetle-browed,  that  swung  from 
limb  to  limb  and  yelled  at  the  winged 
forms  above. 

“A-a-ah!  A-a-ahl” 

And  from  faraway  came  the  answer- 
ing call  of  their  fellows,  red-eyed  and 
toothy,  “A-a-ah!” 

At  one  point  where  a rocky  outcrop 


made  a space  of  barrenness  in  the  war- 
ring vegetation,  there  slumbered  an 
eater  too  gigantic  to  be  eaten.  It  was  a 
slate-gray  monstrosity,  stupidly  evil  of 
face,  massive  of  body,  with  a high  ser- 
ration running  along  it  back.  Its  bal- 
loonlike belly  shrank  and  filled  as  it 
breathed  and  its  tail  curved  away 
through  tree-gap  after  tree-gap.  With 
tiny  eyes  closed  it  snored  in  a manner 
that  shook  the  shrubs  before  its  nose. 

Rafel  had  swooped  daringly  close  to 
get  a better  look  at  the  slumberer  and 
as  he  curved  upward  on  wide-set  wings, 
coming  low  over  a tree,  a many-hued 
worm  stabbed  half  its  length  at  him 
from  where  it  lay  concealed  in  the  foli- 
age. 

So  much  swifter  was  his  own  reaction 
that  he  had  time  only  to  glimpse  the  soft 
elastic  mouth  and  darting  tongue  before 
his  beam  sliced  the  thing  in  three.  The 
parts  fell  near  to  the  slate-gray  sleeper 
and  continued  to  jerk  around  with  raw 
ends.  The  sleeper  opened  one  eye,  stared 
with  dull  disinterest  at  the  squirming 
pieces,  grunted  deep  down  and  closed 
the  eye  again. 

“That,”  remarked  Rafel,  unruffled, 
“is  another  item  for  my  collection  of  cos- 
mic incongruities — ^a mbition  in  a 
worm." 

Edham  said,  “Sometimes  I wonder 
whether  anyone  else  has  us  similarly 
rated.” 

“When  we  meet  them — if  ever  we 
meet  them — we  shall  not  try  to  get  them 
down  our  gullets,”  promised  Rafel. 

“What  else  shall  we  do?” 

“We  will  allow  them  to  swallow  us" 
Rafel  gave  him  a sly  smile.  “We  have 
never  found  any  difficulty  in  permitting 
the  unavoidable.” 

“Neither  shall  I.”  He  did  not  smile 
back.  “In  a way  I shall  have  complete 
control  of  this  world — I shall  sit  upon  it 
and  permit  everything.”  Edham  deftly 
tilted  against  a side-current,  swung 
straight.  “Let  us  view  this  river.” 

The  westward  waterway  over  which 
they  skimmed  was  the  broader  of  the 
two  at  either  side  of  the  valley.  Slow- 
moving  and  sullen,  its  depths  were  yel- 
low and  full  of  life.  Small  shapes  occa- 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  86 


sionally  leaped  from  its  undersurface  to 
escape  larger  pursuers  and  now  and 
again  the  big  ones  jumped  amid  a show- 
er of  drops  to  avoid  the  monstrous.  Logs 
floated  downstream  past  other  half- 
submerged  things  that  strove  to  look 
like  logs. 

A black  hook-beaked  flyer  fell  from 
the  clouds,  coming  silently  on  broad 
leathery  surfaces,  and  plunged  at  Rafel 
while  he  was  studying  a log  that  had 
reptilian  eyes.  Edham  sliced  its  head 
off  in  mid-air.  The  body  shot  straight 
to  the  water  but  did  not  touch  it. 

Great  jaws  came  out  of  the  river  and 
caught  it  at  the  last  moment,  then  sank 
from  sight.  A few  lazy  bubbles  arose. 
The  log  which  had  drawn  Rafel’s  atten- 
tion split  at  one  end  and  yawned,  expos- 
ing many  teeth. 

"Here  life  is  a phase — death  an  in- 
cident,” Edham  commented.  "What  a 
world !” 

"To  face  alone,”  added  Rafel. 

Edham  laughed  without  showing  it. 


CHAPTER  III 
Sanctuary 


Tie  encampment  was  complete  in 
every  detail  on  the  fortieth  day.  Its 
walls  stood  a hundred  cubits  high  by  ten 
cubits  thick,  solid,  jointless,  four-square, 
without  a break  except  for  one  armor- 
plate  door  in  the  center  of  the  side  that 
faced  south.  The  living  house  was  fin- 
ished and  equipped. 

The  instrument  shed  stood  near  it,  the 
tool  shed  adjoined  it  and  the  trans- 
parent house  for  incubating  plants  was 
right  behind.  Apart  from  that  occupied 
by  the  space-ship,  the  rest  of  the  area 
within  the  walls  was  a parade-ground 
for  Disian  plants  in  companies  and  bat- 
talions. 

Rafel  had  a schematic  diagram  spread 
across  a table  inside  the  house  and  his 
long  slender  forefinger  shifted  from 
point  to  point  as  he  spoke. 

"As  you  know  your  main  task  will  be 


to  keep  check  on  all  this.  Every  plant- 
section  must  be  covered  not  less  than 
once  in  five  days.  Every  stage  of 
growth  must  be  carefully  noted.  Any 
departure  from  the  norm  must  be  re- 
corded in  the  fullest  possible  detail.  Any 
failure  to  develop  must  likewise  be  en- 
tered. 

“Take  especial  note  of  comparative 
rates  of  progress  for  they  are  impor- 
tant. If  the  hard-fruited  trees  do  well 
while  the  soft-fruiting  bushes  do  not,  we 
want  to  know  in  what  way  they  differ, 
item  by  item,  for  such  information  is 
invaluable.” 

“I  have  had  all  this  at  the  training 
college,”  Edham  remarked.  "We  may 
never  know  why  some  Di-plants  flourish 
in  alien  conditions  while  others  do  not 
but  it  is  sufficient  to  learn  which  can 
survive.” 

“Exactly,”  agreed  Rafel,  "Where 
enough  of  them  cling  to  existence,  so 
can  we.  It  is  essential  to  know  in  ad- 
vance how  many  can  live  and  of  what 
kinds.  That  is  real  knowledge.”  He 
mused  a little  while  over  the  graph.  "I 
find  it  galling  that  we  are  reduced  to 
animal  status  by  one  dismal  fact — that 
any  world  can  resist  our  settlement  by 
resisting  our  digestive  juices.” 

"Kalteniel  has  the  problem  solved. 
His  characters  are  never  guilty  of  any 
animal  function.  Would  that  I were  one 
of  them.” 

"That  brings  me  to  the  most  emphat- 
ic point.”  Rafel ’s  great  eyes  looked 
straight  and  steadily  into  his.  "This 
also  is  something  you’ve  had  before, 
had  it  until  you’re  sick  of  it,  but  before 
I go  it  must  be  said  again.  That  is  the 
strictest  rule  of  Granor-planting — ^the 
Granor  must  not  be  left  without  being 
told  again.  Until  such  time  as  we  re- 
turn you  wiH  subsist  solely  upon  foods 
of  Di-origin.” 

"I  know,  I know.” 

“The  stores  we  leave  will  last  far  be- 
yond your  fifth  harvest — if  there  are 
any  harvests.  You  are  free  to  eke  out 
your  preserved  supplies  with  fresh  stuff 
grown  within  these  walls — if  any  does 
grow.”  His  voice  grew  sharp,  authori- 
tative. "But  of  the  foods  native  to  this 


8«  THRn,IJNG  WONDER  STORIES 


world  you  must  not  eat !” 

His  kmg  schooling  at  the  College  of 
(iranors  made  itself  felt  as  Edhani 
squared  his  shoulders  and  obediently 
echoed,  “Of  native  fruits  I must  not  eat." 

“Remember  that — always  remember," 
Rafel  emphasized.  ‘The  food  natural  to 
this  earth  may  be  quite  innocuous.  Pos- 
sibly you  might  wax  fat  upon  it,  more 
so  than  upon  Di-foods.  If  so  we  are 
lucky  indeed.  But  the  time  for  testing 
the  matter  is  not  yet. 

“Be  satisfied  that  already  you  are 
breathing  alien  air  of  unknown  potenti- 
alities, that  you  are  continually  sub- 
jected to  the  rays  of  an  alien  sun  with 
hidden  powers,  that  you  remain  within 
alien  gravitational  and  magnetic  fields 
— and  the  total  long-term  effects  of  all 
these  are  pure  guesswork  until  such 
time  as  you  have  eliminated  the  guesses. 

“So  do  not  be  venturesome  or  impa- 
tient. Remember  that  enough  is  enough 
and  rest  content  with  the  hazards  al- 
leady  imposed  upon  you." 

“Do  you  suspect  me  of  excessive 
zeal?"  asked  Edham. 

“I  have  no  suspicions — but  I do  have 
memories.” 

“Of  whatr’ 

“Of  many  things."  He  hesitated,  went 
on,  “My  mind  holds  vivid  pictures  I 
would  give  much  to  forget.  For  example 
I see  the  Granor  of  the  unnamed  world 
near  Arka.  He  suffered  unanticipated 
disaster  to  his  stores,  became  hungry 
and  thirsty  long  before  our  return.  And 
when  we  came  back — " 

“Go  on,"  urged  Edham. 

“I  remember  his  lonely  distorted 
shape  crawling  into  the  dark  as  our 
ship  lifted  and  cut  him  off  forever  from 
his  kind.  What  he  had  was  terrible,  in- 
curable and  contagious.  So  he  crept 
humbly  into  the  dark  and  waited  for  the 
deeper  darkness  of  the  end.  His  name 
is  upon  the  obelisk." 

“Where  mine  will  never  be,"  capped 
Edham.  “I  shall  live  and  grow  fat  out 
of  sheer  spite.” 

Rafel  said  severely,  “There  is  nothing 
funny  about  it.  There  is  nothing  funny," 

"I  am  not  jesting.  I am  trying  only 
to  reassure  you.” 


At  that  moment  John  came  along  to 
bid  farewell  and  Rafel  said  to  him,  "He 
is  attempting  to  comfort  me." 

“It  would  be  more  logical  if  I were 
the  subject  of  his  solicitude,”  returned 
Jolin  morbidly.  ‘The  weight  upon  his 
spirit  is  equaled  by  the  weight  upon  ray 
mind." 

“Did  you  choose  that  unnamed  world 
near  Arka?”  Edham  asked  him. 

“No,  thank  the  broad  heavens!  That 
one  was  not  my  mistake." 

“Neither  will  this  one  be.” 

“Now  he’s  comforting  you."  Rafel 
spread  his  hands  to  indicate  helpless- 
ness. “What  can  one  do  with  a person 
who  insists  on  giving  what  he  is  sup- 
posed to  receive?” 

Gazing  at  the  sky  Edham  suggested, 
“Leave  him  to  his  fearsome  task  of 
lazing  around  and  permitting  the  un- 
avoidable.” 

Jolin  swallowed,  said  uneasily,  “It's 
not  going  to  be  quite  that,”  Then  he 
changed  his  mind,  hurriedly  fini.shed. 
“Farewell!"  He  shook  hands  and  went, 
his  features  worried. 

“He’s  somewhat  sensitive  for  a plane- 
tary surveyor,”  opined  Edham,  gazing 
after  him. 

“He  has  seen  too  much,”  Rafel  cor- 
rected, “As  I have  done.”  He  too  shook 
hands,  retuimed  to  the  ship,  paused  in 
its  open  lock  to  wag  a warning  finger 
and  utter  a final,  “Remember !” 

The  lock  closed.  Edham  backed  well 
away  from  the  venturis.  Presently  the 
tubes  spouted  fire  and  dust  flew  around 
and  a great  wave  of  wai-mth  went 
through  the  walled  area.  Voices  beyond 
the  walls  set  up  a chorus  of  hoots  and 
screams. 

Slowly  the  vessel  rose,  teetering  and 
repeatedly  correcting  its  plane  until  it 
had  gained  stabilizing  speed.  The  lone 
watcher  stood  there  while  it  was  re- 
duced to  a tiny  shining  circle  entering 
a cloud.  It  vanished  into  a black  belly. 
He  sighed  and  sat  upon  a handy  rock. 

“I  am  the  Granor  of  the  Green  World, 
a seed  of  Di  planted  to  discover  just 
what  happens  to  me.  I am  the  lowliest 
tool  of  a super-agronomy,  the  test-piece, 
the  fleshly  nurseling  among  a million 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  87 


vegetable  ones.  If  I live  here  my  kind 
will  live  here.  If  I change  my  kind  will 
change.  If  I die  my  kind  will  die.  For 
better  or  for  worse  I am  the  Granor 
of  the  Green  World.” 

Beyond  the  walls,  "A-a-ah ! A-a-ah!” 

OF  course  the  first  night  was  the 
worst.  The  felon  caged  for  life  can 
hear  and  sometimes  see  evidence  of  the 
workaday  world  outside.  The  ship- 
wrecked survivor  upon  a deserted  island 
can  scan  the  horizon  hopefully,  week  by 
week,  temper  by  temper.  But  one  with 
an  entire  planet  to  himself  knows  an 
isolation  that  cannot  be  more  complete. 
The  Granor  is  alone,  utterly  alone. 

He  lay  on  his  air-cushioned  bunk 
within  the  prefabricated  house  while 
the  world’s  gloom  thickened  toward  mid- 
night and  sleep  refused  to  come.  His 
mind  insisted  upon  busying  itself  with 
calculations  of  tempors  and  velocities 
which  would  enable  it  to  place  the  ap- 
proximate j)osition  of  the  departing 
vessel. 

His  eyes  kept  opening  to  stare  at  the 
pearls  of  condensation  shining  on  the 
ceiling.  He  could  have  cleared  these 
away  at  one  turn  of  a handy  switch  but 
he  had  not  noticed  them  because  he  was 
looking  at  an  imaginary  space-ship.  All 
the  time  his  ears  were  straining  to  catch 
outeide  noi-ses,  of  which  there  were 
plenty. 

There  had  been  a peculiar  hush  when 
the  hidden  sun  went  down  and  twilight 
came  and  coldness  flowed  in.  The  day- 
time noises  had  subsided — the  night 
howlers  had  been  slow  to  appear.  Now, 
as  the  earth  turned  farther  around  from 
the  warmth,  the  hairy  things  that  shout- 
ed, "A-a-ah!”  were  silent  and  other 
creatures  -with  different  voices  built  up 
their  own  characteristic  din. 

For  almost  a quarter  temper  two  of 
them — huge  and  invisible — fought  with 
shrill  screams  and  much  flapping  of  bat- 
wings  right  over  his  roof.  In  the  end 
one  landed  upon  the  roof,  gasped  and 
bubbled  awhile,  made  many  scratching 
scrabbling  sounds  before  it  took  off  and 
vanished  into  the  dark.  It  left  an  acrid 
smell  as  of  strange  blood. 


Eastward,  just  outside  the  wall,  a 
pair  of  unknown  shapes  of  unknown 
tonnage  battled  tremendously,  emitting 
piercing  whistles  at  intervals  and  caus- 
ing the  faintest  of  tremors  in  the 
ground.  Edham  pressed  a hand  on  the 
floor  to  sense  the  quivers,  slight  but 
discernible. 

To  cap  the  rest  the  wind  built  itself 
up  to  a loud  moan  that  sounded  as  if 
the  world  itself  were  registering  its 
agony.  Distant  trees  thrashed  and  great 
limbs  broke  loose  and  tattered  objects 
flew  through  the  air. 

The  moan  went  up  a hundred  cycles 
where  the  airstream  hit  the  wall, 
dropped  lower  as  it  sped  across  the 
planted  area.  Clouds  rushed  close-packed 
across  the  sky,  seeming  to  be  held  in 
space  while  the  earth  rotated  independ- 
ently. 

As  the  tempors  crept  nearer  to  morn- 
ing Edham  dozed  without  really  sleep- 
ing. He  had  fragmentary  dreams  of  the 
great  city  of  Dise  upon  the  planet  also 
called  Dise  beneath  tie  sun  name  Di. 
At  no  time  had  he  scorned  the  city,  yet 
he  had  failed  to  enjoy  it  as  others  had 
enjoyed  it. 

Now  he  wanted  it.  They  had  warned 
him  at  the  college  that  it  is  natural  to 
desire  lost  things  when  it  is  too  late.  He 
must  conquer  the  yearning — but  he 
wanted  the  city. 

Dawn  found  him  heavy-eyed  and  rest- 
less. The  hurricane  had  gone,  the  heat- 
meter’s  hand  already  had  begun  to  move 
along  its  scale  and  the  same  bellowers 
were  back  with  their  sounds.  Taking  the 
top  package  from  the  nearest  pile  in  his 
ground-level  stockroom  he  opened  it,  ate 
a four-course  breakfast. 

The  to>n  wrappings  lay  across  his 
knees  while  he  ate  and  he  could  see  the 
lettering — Sunup  Meal  1.  The  sight  did 
not  please  him  despite  his  long  training. 
This  irritation  was  no  more  than  evi- 
dence of  an  incongruity  which  for  cen- 
turies had  bedeviled  the  worthy  tutors 
at  the  College  of  Granors,  namely,  that 
trainees  are  selected  as  natural  pioneers 
— and  men  who  are  natural  pioneers  do 
not  take  kindly  to  regimentation. 

Thus  he  scowled  at  the  lettering  be- 


THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


m 

cause  he  knew  that  when  the  correct 
temper  chimed  he  would  open  Noon 
Meal  1 and  later  Sundown  Meal  1 and 
tomorrow  Sunup  Meal  2. 

He  was  being  fed  prepared  fodder  at 
prescribed  times  exactly  like  an  exhibit 
in  the  zoo. 

Finishing,  he  got  mild  satisfaction 
out  of  burning  the  wrappings  with  their 
offending  inscription.  He  went  out  to 
inspect  the  Di-nursery,  hoping  for  work. 
Already  there  was  a little  for  him  to  do. 
Limbs  and  pieces  of  bark  and  strips  of 
frond  and  thousands  of  leaves  ripped 
from  outer  trees  lay  scattered  all  over 
the  place. 

Patiently  he  gathered  this  rubbish 
into  the  bare  circle  where  the  ship  had 
squatted  and  beamed  it  to  ash.  That 
filled  in  his  morning  and  after  the  noon 
meal  he  spent  a couple  of  tempers  tend- 
ing plants  that  had  suffered  slight  dam- 
age overnight. 

A short  time  before  sunset  he  got  out 
his  wings,  had  an  awkward  job  with  the 
harness,  which  was  not  easy  to  fit  single- 
handed.  The  tiny  propulsor  drove  him 
to  the  top  of  the  wall,  where  he  strolled 
along  its  broad  flat  crest  with  pinions 
folded  and  gleaming. 

The  toothy  ones  in  the  jungle  snarled 
and  gibbered  in  anger  at  the  unearthly 
sight. 

At  a point  near  the  corner  where  the 
wall  right-angled  northward  a local  ob- 
jector waddled  out  of  its  hiding  place, 
came  right  to  the  base  of  the  impassable 
rampart  and  stood  directly  below  him. 
Staring  upward  with  red  eyes  that 
burned  beneath  projecting  brows,  it 
drummed  resoundingly  upon  its  chest, 
made  deep  grunting  sounds  and  drooled 
saliva. 

Its  attitude  was  challenging,  an  un- 
mistakable invitation  to  come  down  and 
settle  once  for  all  the  question  of  who 
was  the  superior  life-form.  Edham  an- 
swered it  by  pausing  in  his  walk,  giving 
glare  for  glare  and  laughing  inside  of 
himself  until  the  creature  foamed  with 
fury. 

At  the  height  of  its  rage  he  calmly 
spread  his  wings,  glided  within  the 
walls  and  out  of  its  sight. 


CHAPTER  IV 
Lonely  Vigil 


There  was  little  sleep  that  night 
either.  He  made  a fitting  end  to  an 
imperfect  day  by  consuming  Sundown 
Meal  1,  recited  his  brief  notes  into  his 
autorecorder,  had  a short  time  with  a 
pictorialized  story  taken  from  his  small 
library,  then  composed  himself  upon  his 
bunk. 

Soon  the  rain  came.  It  sounded  as  if 
someone  high  above  were  throwing 
away  an  unwanted  ocean.  He  had  never 
heard  anything  like  it.  The  skies  thun- 
dered and  the  ground  thundered  and  the 
jungle  bent  over.  There  was  alarm  in 
his  mind  comparable  to  the  noise  in  his 
ears  for  he  had  visions  of  tender  suck- 
lings being  bombarded  out  of  existence. 

Kalteniel  would  have  countered  this 
menace  by  shielding  the  whole  area 
under  a force-screen.  A Granor  has  no 
such  means  available  since  he  must  rely 
upon  what  exists  in  reality  rather  than 
in  the  imagination. 

Disian  science  had  produced  effective 
power-beams,  which  could  perform  work 
or  be  concentrated  destructively,  but 
there  was  no  known  way  in  which  to 
spread  a beam  without  loss  of  power  to 
the  point  of  impotence.  In  grim  fact 
there  was  nothing  to  discipline  the  tor- 
rent but  the  pumps. 

His  restlessness  soon  turned  to  action. 
Getting  a transparent  waterproof  sheath 
from  a nearby  hook  he  pulled  it  over 
himself  like  an  upended  sack,  went  out 
with  his  powerful  handlight  shining 
through  the  protecting  material.  The 
rain  battered  at  him  furiously  and  ran 
over  the  sheath  in  such  a heavy  stream 
that  it  blurred  his  vision. 

Despite  this  he  made  his  way  to  the 
instrument  shed  wherein  were  hi.s 
power-plant  and  the  pumps  which  were 
connected  with  the  area’s  irrigation  sy.s- 
tem.  The  squat  heavy  atomic  engine 
needed  no  starting  for  it  was  built  to 
run  continuously  until  due  for  replace- 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  PO 


ment  in  several  years’  time.  He  put  the 
six  pumps  into  operation  one  by  one, 
letting  the  engine  take  up  the  load  in 
stages. 

Very  soon  their  joint  output  meter 
registered  eight  aquabulks  per  milli- 
tempor,  an  accurate  indication  of  the 
great  quantity  pouring  from  the  clouds. 
He  remained  in  the  shed  for  part  of  the 
night,  nursing  the  pumps,  watching  the 
meters  and  listening  to  the  downpour. 

When  eventually  outside  sounds  were 
replaced  by  an  amazing  calm  and  the 
output  meter  showed  a drop,  he  stopped 
the  pumps,  returned  to  the  house,  voiced 
a complaint  into  his  autorecorder  before 
laying  down  on  his  bunk. 

"I  can  switch  from  the  house  every- 
Uving  switchable  excepting  the  pumps. 
This  world  being  what  it  is,  remote  con- 
trol of  those  would  be  a convenience.” 

That  was  telling  them.  At  some  fu- 
ture time  on  some  similar  planet  a 
Granor  would  be  able  to  cope  with  a 
flood  at  the  touch  of  a hand.  They  might 
even  arrange  it  for  him  the  trip  after 
next — if  he  were  still  living  at  that  time. 
If  he  were  still  . . . Slumber  stepped  in 
and  drove  the  speculation  from  his 
mind. 

He  reposed  flat  on  his  back  with  eyes 
closed,  his  lungs  sucking  heavily  at  the 
alien  air.  Beyond  the  wall  all  was  silent 
save  for  the  patter  of  dislodged  drops 
and  the  ripple  of  dying  rivulets. 

Three  weeks  of  backbreaking  toil  were 
needed  to  make  good  the  damage.  There 
is  no  Disian  automaton  capable  of  re- 
viving and  resetting  ter  thousand  infant 
plants  which  have  been  tormented  al- 
most to  death.  Each  one  had  to  be  treat- 
ed tenderly  and  by  hand,  its  weak  roots 
bedded  firmly  in  the  earth,  its  leaves 
fondled  to  erectness. 

He  finished  with  sore  fingers  and  a 
crick  in  the  spine.  Had  all  the  growths 
suffered  he  could  not  have  coped  in  time 
to  save  them.  But  the  bulbs  and  tubers 
had  squatted  hidden  and  undisturbed 
while  the  baby  trees  had  survived  the 
overnight  ordeal. 

Only  the  smallest,  most  delicate  sur- 
face plants  had  been  washed  out  and  the 
major  part  of  these  he  had  been  able  to 


restore.  Perhaps  ten  i)ercent  were  be- 
yond rescue.  At  least  there  had  been  no 
further  disaster  while  the  job  was  in 
hand. 

The  midday  the  task  was  complete  he 
bathed,  gave  his  aching  back  some  radi- 
ant heat  treatment,  consumed  No<m 
Meal  22,  dictated  his  notes  to  the  auto- 
recorder. 

“Sectors  ten  to  eighteen  have  been  re- 
set. The  loss  numbers  about  one  in  ten. 
All  other  sectors  remain  rooted.  The  six 
end  rows  in  sector  nine  are  turning 
from  green  to  yellow  and  their  leaves 
show  first  signs  of  shriveling. 

“The  whole  of  the  trees  in  twenty- 
four  to  forty  are  advancing  at  above 
normal  rate,  appear  healthy  and  vigor- 
ous and  seem  likely  to  grow  much  larger 
than  their  usual  size.  There  is  nothing 
to  report  about  remaining  sectors.” 

Gazing  absently  at  the  mouthpiece 
into  which  he  had  spoken,  he 
thought  awhile,  added,  “I  have  examined 
myself  in  the  mirror  and  see  nothing 
unusual  except  that  I look  physically 
tired.  To  date  my  sleep  has  been  inade- 
quate. Mj  weight  has  gone  down  by  one 
twentieth.  Doubtless  these  things  will 
correct  themselves  in  due  course.” 

The  listening  machine  got  no  more 
than  that,  the  bare  facts.  At  the  college 
his  brevity  often  had  been  deplored. 
They  liked  garrulous  Granors  who  filled 
in  the  picture  with  a wealth  of  detail. 
It  did  not  matter  that  the  babblers  were 
compounding  with  an  unnatural  situa- 
tion by  talking  to  themselves,  using 
spool  after  spool  of  recording  tape  for 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  their  own  voices. 

According  to  the  tutors,  much  infor- 
mation of  great  value  had  been  sorted 
out  from  such  seemingly  inconsequential 
chatter.  Edham  did  not  feel  that  he  had 
yet  got  to  the  self-conversational  stage 
or  that  he  would  ever  get  to  it.  So  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  when  the  time  came 
to  pray  for  a voice  -it  must  be  another’s 
voice,  different,  new. 

A full  day  of  lounging  in  the  library, 
watching  selections  from  pictorialized 
books,  served  to  refresh  him  and  take 
away  the  aches.  The  Disian  breed  re- 


90  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


oovera  swiftly,  is  resilient.  That  is  to 
say,  the  fleshly  Disians. 

The  vegetable  ones  varied  for  no 
known  reason.  Thus  the  yellowing 
plants  in  sector  nine  turned  yellower 
and  slowly  released  their  frail  hold  on 
life  while  the  burgeoning  bodhi  trees 
in  twenty-four  to  forty  continued  to 
progress  at  rates  almost  detectable  be- 
tween successive  sundowns. 

He  took  samples  of  the  dying  ones, 
dissecting  them,  subjecting  thin  slivers 
of  cross-section  to  microscopic  inspec- 
tion, analysing  the  roots  and  the  dirt 
in  which  they  had  been  buried.  The  ap- 
paratus in  the  instrument  shed  was  good 
snough  for  rough  one-man  estimates 
but  not  sufficiently  delicate  to  detect  and 
measure  the  merest  traces  of  rare  ele- 
ments. 

Either  the  cause  of  the  casualties  was 
.something  too  minute  and  elusive  to 
identify  with  what  he  had  available — 
or  more  probably  it  was  beyond  identi- 
fication in  the  light  of  present-day 
knowledge.  It  might  well  be  seated  in 
improperly  understood  plant-psychol- 
ogy, the  mysterious  reasons  why  one 
growth  made  itself  at  home  while  an- 
other died  rather  than  endure  the 
strangeness. 

What  little  he  did  discover  went  into 
the  notes.  Characteristically  all  hazard 
and  speculation  were  left  out.  The  bare 
facts  as  usual.  On  the  day  the  last  mem- 
ber of  the  six  rows  was  definitely  dead 
and  all  the  gp’owths  in  sector  twelve  be- 
gan to  show  first  signs  of  surrendering 
the  battle,  he  recorded  the  matter  im- 
passively. 

“The  little  ones  in  the  westward  rows 
of  sector  nine  have  gone  without  excep- 
tion. The  bushes  in  twelve  are  now  sick- 
ening. The  rest  exist,  some  vigorously, 
some  not,  as  per  yesterday’s  report.” 

Two  months  later,  after  he  had 
beamed  to  dust  the  faded  remnants  of 
.sector  twelve,  he  sickened  himself.  The 
temperature  of  his  blood  arose,  he  per- 
spired profusely,  felt  weak  and  muddle- 
minded.  His  digestive  system  went  hay- 
wire. 

Frequent  doses  of  the  likeliest  drugs 
had  no  effect.  The  disease  put  him  on 


his  back,  too  exhausted  to  weed  the 
acres  or  carry  out  inspections,  make 
notes  or  do  anything  else  than  let  it 
run  its  course — to  recovery  or  the  end. 

Between  spells  of  delirium  he  listened 
for  outer  disaster,  wondering  whether 
— if  necessity  proved  dire  enough — he 
could  lift  and  thumb  his  attack-beam  or 
crawl  to  the  pumps.  Experimentally  he 
made  two  attempts  to  begin  the  crawl, 
failed  both  times. 

He  was  many  five-day  reports  overdue 
when  eventually  the  illness  relaxed  its 
hold.  The  rain  had  come  almost  every 
night  and  sometimes  by  day  but  never 
in  a menacing  torrent.  The  plants  still 
stood  undisturbed.  He  was  alive  though 
thin  and  lacking  in  strength.  There  was 
much  for  which  to  be  thankful. 

The  autorecorder  got  a curt  uncom- 
plaining description  of  his  sickness,  its 
symptoms,  its  progress.  He  did  not 
bother  to  emphasize  that  he  was  breath- 
ing alien  air,  drinking  distilled  alien 
water  but  eating  Disian  food,  that  there- 
fore the  food  was  not  to  blame. 

Let  the  machine’s  future  listeners 
draw  their  own  conclusions — that  was 
their  job.  His  was  to  be  the  subject  of 
the  operation  and  tell  how  it  felt,  stage 
by  stage,  even  though  the  knife  sank 
deep.  The  Granor  is  a seed  of  his  race. 
It  is  helpful  to  plant  a seed  that  can 
talk,  even  though  laconically. 

IN  the  third  year,  when  the  bodhi  tree.s 
fruited  tremendously  and  became 
smothered  with  their  typical  golden 
balls  of  succulence,  the  ahbodhi  trees 
produced  a lesser  load  of  distorted  dis- 
colored objects  that  were  repulsively 
sour  to  the  taste. 

The  two  kinds  were  related,  different 
varieties  of  the  same  species,  yet  one 
had  spawned  and  the  other  miscarried. 
One  had  mastered  circumstances,  the 
other  been  mastered  by  them — almost 
like  people. 

Edham  got  a thought, out  of  that,  a 
dark  suspicion.  He  did  not  record  it 
because  it  was  not  yet  a self-evident 
fact.  But  the  notion  kept  circling  tenta- 
tively in  his  mind,  without  hardening. 
It  gained  strength  nearer  the  year’s  end 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  91 


when  ten  allied  breeds  of  bushes  pro- 
duced crops  as  eatable  as  any  on  their 
home  territory — but  at  different  dates, 
in  different  sizes,  shapes  and  colors. 

All  tasted  the  same.  All  gave  the  same 
responses  to  his  perhaps  inadequate 
analysis.  All  provided  a welcome  fresh- 
ness for  his  digestive  juices  and  nour- 
ished him  to  the  same  extent.  Yet  all 
were  different. 

"If  I live  my  kind  can  live.  If  I live 
my  kind  will  settle  here,  build  new 
cities,  a new  world.  They  will  have 
natural  increase — but  will  that  increase 
be  natural?  Will  their  children  be  the 
same?” 

No  answer — no  way  of  telling.  It  was 
entirely  his  own  mystery,  as  unsatis- 
factory and  frustrating  as  Jolin’s  sad 
puzzle.  So  he  held  it  in  restraint  with- 
out putting  it  aside,  and  gladly  ate  of 
such  of  the  crop  as  was  eatable.  He  had 
consumed  Sunup  Meal  1100  already  and 
was  more  than  eager  for  a change  of 
diet. 

"I  am  now  going  out  of  count  with 
the  packaged  food,”  he  recorded,  "by 
reason  of  using  part  of  the  crop.  There 
are  yet  no  signs  of  anything  seeding 
apart  from  the  usual  influx  of  local 
weeds.  The  crop  has  to  be  protected 
not  only  from  these  but  also  from  peri- 
odic attacks  of  flying  things,  occurring 
always  during  daylight  tempers,  never 
at  night. 

"So  far  I have  killed  about  four  hun- 
dred raiders  and  lost  little.  There  has 
been  nothing  to  show  why  night-time 
flyers  are  not  similarly  attracted.  I have 
examined  myself  and  have  been  unable 
to  detect  any  change  except  that  my 
color  remains  heightened.” 

Propagation  eventually  followed  the 
same  course  as  the  fruiting,  delays 
where  there  had  been  delays,  intervals 
matching  intervals,  differences  where 
there  had  been  differences.  Something 
in  the  rays  of  the  concealed  sun  or  the 
soil  or  the  rain  or  the  air  was  creating 
new  varieties  and  thrusting  a subtle 
wedge  between  existing  ones  to  force 
them  further  apart. 

Nevertheless  he  noted  every  item,  pa- 
tiently set  the  seed,  drove  off  the  winged 


monsters  whose  bellies  yearned  for  the 
grains  as  much  as  for  the  fruits.  Aware 
by  training  that  what  he  had  eaten  of 
this  his  first  crop,  though  of  Di-origin, 
was  alien  grown,  he  watched  himself 
more  frequently  for  secondary  effects. 
There  were  none  visible  and  when  one 
did  come  it  caught  him  unknowing,  un- 
suspicious. 

He  was  winged  for  one  of  his  bore- 
dom-breaking strolls  around  the  wall 
and  a pleasant  exchange  of  insults  with 
his  neighbors  when  a black  thing  came 
down  from  the  sky,  intent  on  plunder. 
Many  a seed  was  being  coddled  by  the 
ash  of  such  a visitor  but  this  time  he 
did  not  wait  for  it  to  land  before  dis- 
solving it  in  smoke. 

A sudden  unfamiliar  feeling  swept 
irresistibly  over  him.  His  veins  swelled, 
his  eyes  blazed,  he  spread  his  wings  and 
bulleted  upward  to  meet  it.  The  crea- 
ture died  halfway  down  from  a cloud 
and  as  he  beamed  it  he  heard  a yell  of 
triumph  in  his  own  voice. 

Sitting  on  top  of  the  wall,  pinions 
folded,  the  mid  joints  pointing  high 
above  his  shoulders,  legs  dangling  down 
on  the  jungle  side,  he  pondered  the  phe- 
nomenon. It  was  unwonted  bellicosity. 
That  any  Disian  can  display  belliger- 
ence was  not  in  itself  surprising.  No 
kind  can  settle  a thousands  worlds  with- 
out taking  the  oflFensive  whenever  the 
occasion  demanded  it.  The  point  was 
that  he  had  displayed  uncontrolled  ani- 
mosity at  the  drop  of  a meal  wrapper 
without  real  need  to  do  so.  It  was  lack 
of  self-discipline.  It  was  unreason. 

The  subject  stewed  in  his  mind  a full 
temper,  during  which  he  gave  grave 
consideration  to  the  possible  state  of  his 
liver,  his  gall  bladder,  his  kidneys  or, 
alternatively,  the  subtler  effect  upon 
his  mentality  of  three  years  of  isolation. 

Before  he  had  finished  his  specu- 
lations the  chest-drummer  or  its  twin 
brother  shambled  out  of  the  jungle 
shadows,  stood  directly  below  him, 
glared  up  red-eyed  and  roared  its  hate. 
On  other  days  when  this  had  happened 
he’d  contented  himself  with  an  answer- 
ing mock-glare  guaranteed  to  make  ttw 
creature  put  over  an  interesting  exhi- 


»2  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


bition  of  animal  frenzy.  This  time  his 
own  eyes  blazed.  He  bent  forward — and 
spat  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Sound  of  a Vo4ee 


For  a considerable  time  afterwards 
he  was  broody,  introspective,  fre- 
quently consulted  the  mirror.  There  was 
no  physical  changre  that  he  could  pin 
down  as  more  than  imaginary.  The  hair 
on  his  head  seemed  thicker,  more  wiry, 
harder  to  subdue.  His  eyes  held  a con- 
stant hint  of  aggressiveness — or  so  he 
fancied.  He  could  not  be  sure. 

Sheer  self-discipline  kept  him  away 
from  the  walls  while  he  concentrated 
upon  the  plants,  his  progress  reports 
and  the  potentially  alterable  phenome- 
non of  his  own  body.  On  four  occasions 
he  bit  his  lips  as  he  beamed  a dying 
raider,  coolly,  carefully,  with  deter- 
mined disregard  of  that  part  of  him 
which  screamed  for  closer  battle. 

Nothing  of  this  went  into  the  auto- 
recorder,  not  a jot,  not  a hint.  All  the 
transformations  he  could  perceive  were 
duly  noted  but  not  those  only  half-seen 
or  dimly  suspected. 

With  the  end  of  winter  and  the  com- 
ing of  spring  the  rising  tide  of  his  blood 
swamped  his  restraint.  Day  after  day, 
tempor  after  tempor,  he  had  paced  his 
enclosure  from  one  end  to  the  other,  to 
and  fro,  to  and  fro,  like  a caged  animal. 
The  skies  retain^  their  everlasting 
gray  but  the  fresher  air  was  cool  and 
warm  by  turns.  Putting  on  his  wings 
he  soared  to  the  wall,  strolled  along  its 
crest. 

A slate-colored  colossus,  resembling 
that  monstrous  sleeper  of  long  ago,  was 
standing  close  to  the  base  on  the  south- 
ern side  and  rubbing  its  back  against 
the  stone  to  scrape  olF  unseeable  para- 
sites. The  process  created  loud  rasping 
sounds  and  sent  up  an  odor  of  pungent 
hide. 

Standing  directly  above  it  and  looking 


down  into  the  smell,  Edham  felt  his 
mouth  open  of  its  own  accord  and  he 
bawled  an  ugly  name  at  it.  The  monster 
ceased  its  scratching,  looked  stupidly 
around  in  every  direction  but  upward. 
He  called  it  again.  It  discovered  him, 
focused  eyes  incongruously  small  in  so 
tremendous  a head. 

Releasing  an  angry  snort  of  such 
power  that  he  could  feel  the  wind  of  it 
many  cubits  above,  the  thing  reared  it- 
self against  the  wall,  tried  to  claw  him 
down,  found  him  out  of  reach  by  more 
than  a man-length.  It  gave  another 
snort  of  imbecilic  disappointment,  fell 
back  to  ground  with  a rousing  thud. 
Its  stench  was  strong,  acrid. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  almo.st 
forgotten  trip  with  Rafel  the  winged 
Edham  left  the  enclosure.  With  no 
thought  of  rules  and  regulations  and 
temporarily  forgetful  of  past  training 
he  spread  his  pinions  and  dived  off  the 
wall — outward.  His  bold  swoop  carried 
him  straight  across  the  other’s  serrated 
back,  his  feet  touching  it  in  passing.  It 
twisted  with  twenty-ton  clumsines.s, 
clawed  at  him  and  missed.  Behemoth 
swiping  a wasp. 

Edham  landed  lightly  in  thick  grass. 
His  opponent  snuffled  eagerly  and 
charged.  He  soared  again  at  the  very 
last  instant,  his  eyes  afire.  The  thing 
tossed  its  head  as  its  own  momentum 
carried  it  beneath  him,  touched  a foot. 
He  beamed  away  the  tip  of  its  tail  as  it 
passed.  The  jungle  was  full  of  specta- 
tors, howling  and  hooting  at  the  pair  of 
them.  The  tree-tops  quivered  and  gave 
forth  noises. 

Coming  down  into  the  grass  once 
more  he  whirled  around  in  readiness 
for  another  charge.  His  lungs  were  big, 
his  breath  came  fast  and  some  strange 
appetite  within  him  was  satiating  itself 
upon  he  knew  not  what. 

The  slate-gray  nightmare  had  lum- 
bered around  in  a small  circle,  snuffling 
all  the  while.  Finding  him,  it  fixed  tiny 
eyes  upon  him,  expanded  its  nostrils  to 
keep  his  scent  and  launched  itself  for- 
ward. The  ponderous  beat  of  its  on- 
coming feet  resounded  far  through  the 
ground  and  vibrated  up  the  trees  to 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  93 


where  the  hidden  audience  stank  and 
gibbered. 

With  wings  folded  Edham  waited  for 
the  creature  to  be  almost  upon  him.  He 
remained  stock  still  until  he  could  see 
the  wetness  upon  a huge  misshapen 
tooth.  Then  he  sprang  aside.  Too  much 
tonnage  carried  the  other  on,  unable  to 
swerve.  He  rayed  away  another  section 
of  its  tail. 

By  now  the  peculiar  hunger  within 
him  had  gone.  He  opened  wings  to  soar, 
found  himself  anchored.  A weirdly  pat- 
terned worm  in  the  undergrowth  had 
coiled  itself  around  one  ankle.  It  had 
beady  unblinking  eyes  that  watched 
him  fixedly  as  coil  after  coil  came 
slithering  through  the  grass. 

The  slate-gray  monster  came  back 
thunderously,  cheered  on  by  the  crowd. 
Edham  chopped  the  worm  at  random, 
arose  sluggishly  with  the  severed  por- 
tion still  clinging  as  if  unconscious  of 
its  loss.  The  slate-gray  monster  was  al- 
most upon  him. 

For  an  awful  moment  he  thought  he 
was  not  going  to  make  it.  Power  poured 
through  the  propulsor  and  his  wings 
swept  wide  while  the  beady-eyed  thing 
clung  raw-ended  and  tried  to  summon 
its  missing  length. 

Dragging  it  with  him  he  went  up, 
frantically  shaking  his  leg.  It  dropped 
off  barely  in  time  to  save  him  and  sud- 
den release  of  the  burden  caused  him 
to  shoot  skyward  almost  from  under  the 
twenty-tonner’s  nose. 

This  dose  escape  eased  the  peculiar 
gnawing  inside  him.  Gaining  the 
wall  he  sat  on  its  top,  drew  long  relieved 
breaths  and  perspired.  There  were  queer 
disconnected  thoughts  running  through 
his  mind,  the  inconsequential  notions  of 
an  uneasy  sleep. 

“Life  is  beautiful  because  of  death, 
like  light  in  the  darkness.  To  battle  is 
to  live  and  to  live  is  to  be  not-dead.  I 
must  fight  or  be  dead.  I must  live.  A 
Granor  must  live.” 

He  looked  down  upon  his  recent  oppo- 
nent, now  snorting  around  defeatedly, 
and  echoed  in  bemused  manner,  “A 
Granor?  What  is  a Granor?” 


Then  he  stood  up  and  yelled  at  the 
jungle,  "I  am  Man!  Look,  I am  Man!** 

The  jungle  screamed  back,  "A-a-ahl” 

The  ship’s  return  was  like  the  occur- 
rence of  a major  miracle.  True,  after 
most  of  six  years  it  should  have  been 
expected  or  at  least  hoped  for.  But  six 
years  can  be  six  tempers  or  as  many 
centuries,  according  to  the  circum- 
stances. By  the  time  it  came  back  it 
was  to  Edham  little  more  than  the  fig- 
ment of  a half-forgotten  dream. 

He  stiffened  with  incredulity  when 
the  clouds  were  blown  apart  and  the  ves- 
sel appeared.  A multitude  of  emotions 
electrified  his  being  while  he  watched 
the  shining  thing  come  down.  A con- 
flicting mixture  of  surly  resentment  and 
ecstatic  anticipation  took  hold  of  him  as 
though  somehow  he  had  become  two  in- 
dividuals in  one  body,  each  reacting  in 
its  own  way.  The  vision  of  the  ship  had 
precipitated  a sort  of  spiritual  schizo- 
phrenia. 

Rafel  was  first  out.  His  big  luminous 
eyes  alive  with  pleasure  he  seized  Ed- 
ham’s  hand,  winced  at  the  power  of  its 
grasp. 

“Here  we  are,  not  merely  up  to  time, 
but  early.”  His  hands  went  to  either  side 
of  the  other’s  shoulders,  patting  them, 
estimating  their  width.  “My,  but  you 
look  splendid!  You’re  bigger,  broader, 
heavier  and  it’s  all  muscle.  ’This  place 
must  suit  you.  Jolin  will  be  overjoyed.” 

"Jolin,”  murmured  Edham,  looking 
around. 

“He’s  not  with  us  this  trip,”  Rafel 
went  on.  “No  point  in  him  judging  the 
same  planet  twice.  He  has  gone  with 
Razudiel  to  look  over  a new  system  be- 
yond Neo-Dise.” 

“So?”  said  Edham,  staring  at  the 
ship. 

“Well,  aren’t  you  pleased  to  see  u^?” 
Rafel  regarded  him  more  carefully. 
“You  never  did  say  much  but  now  you 
seem  almost  speechless.”  His  smile  fol- 
lowed quickly,  full  of  sympathy.  “I  guess 
you’re  a little  overwhelmed  by  company 
and  the  sound  of  a voice.” 

“The  sound  of  a voice,”  repeated  Ed- 
ham, speaking  as  if  from  far  away. 

Taking  his  arm,  Rafel  led  him  toward 


94  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


the  ship.  “The  first  part  of  your  task — 
the  stage  of  silence — is  ended.  The 
worst  is  over.  The  next  will  be  shorter 
and  sweeter — if  the  medicos  pass  you.” 

“If,”  said  Edham. 

“There  seems  little  likelihood  that 
they  won't,”  encouraged  Rafel.  "I  have 
never  seen  a Oranor  looking  in  such 
excellent  trim.” 

“I  am  not  fattening  myself  for  the 
kill,”  Edham  asured.  “And  what  is  more 
1 am  laughing.”  He  nodded  toward  the 
wall.  “As  I have  laughed  at  them,  loud, 
long  and  often.”  He  paused,  licked  his 
lips,  added  with  strange  satisfaction, 
“They  do  not  like  me  laughing." 

Soaring,  Rafel  became  thoughtful  as 
he  took  Edham  into  the  ship,  handed 
him  over  to  the  medicos. 

There  were  six  of  these  examiners, 
tall,  coldly  professional,  white-coated. 
Stripping  him  they  went  over  him  cell 
by  cell,  made  him  breathe  down  a tube 
so  that  the  contents  of  his  lungs  bubbled 
into  an  inverted  bottle,  took  blood  sam- 
ples from  various  parts  of  him,  took 
hair  and  nail  clippings,  even  a skin 
section. 

They  rayed  him,  studied  his  insides 
upon  a fiuorescent  screen  from  four 
different  angles,  discussed  his  spleen  in 
incomprehensible  jargon.  They  photo- 
graphed the  lining  of  his  stomach  with 
a button  camera  at  the  end  of  a flexible 
tube,  used  a powerful  light  beam  and  a 
inagnaglass  to  examine  his  tongue, 
throat  and  epiglottis.  They  asked  a hun- 
dred questions. 

“You  have  a seed  molar.  Did  the  first 
one  expel  itself  in  normal  manner  or 
did  you  have  to  extract  it?” 

“When  did  you  first  observe  the  ap- 
pearance of  b<^y-hair?” 

“Did  you  make  a note  of  it  in  your 
autorecorder?” 

“Did  it  appear  simultaneously  in  all 
places  where  now  evident,  or  did  it  start 
in  one  place  and  spread  from  there?" 

He  asked,  “Does  hair  matter?" 
“Most  certainly.” 

“Why?” 

They  became  evasive.  “Hair  upon  the 
|K>dy  is  not  a normal  feature  of  our 


kind — and  every  change  matters.” 

“So  I have  changed?” 

The  chief  examiner  said,  “Look, 
everyone  alters  from  birth  to  death.” 
“As  7 have?” 

“This  is  a routine  investigation  and 
not  a debate,”  reminded  the  examiner. 
“Leave  it  to  us  to  decide  which  physical 
phenomena  are  significant  and  which 
are  not.” 

Edham  said,  “Don't  bellow  at  me.” 
“I  am  not  bellowing.  I spoke  in  per- 
fectly ordinary  tones.”  He  gestured  to 
an  assistant.  “Have  a look  at  his  ears.” 
They  went  over  the  ears,  presently 
put  down  upon  a form  the  words,  Aural 
sense  pretematurally  sharpened. 

A bit  later,  “How  did  you  acquire 
those  scars  on  the  calf-muscle  of  your 
right  leg?” 

He  stared  down  at  the  leg,  twisting 
himself  to  see  the  marks.  “Fighting  a 
wild  thing.  It  clawed  me.” 

They  were  tempted  to  ask  why  he 
had  not  beamed  it  before  it  got  that 
near  but  refrained.  Such  questions  were 
for  the  psychoanalysts. 

In  due  time  the  latter  had  their  turn 
and  put  it  to  him,  “Is  your  hand-pro- 
jector still  energized  and  efficient?” 
“Yes.” 

“Why  didn’t  you  use  it?” 

“I  please  myself.  I am  an  individual.” 
“We  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to 
challenge  your  rights  as  such,”  soothed 
the  other.  “We  are  merely  interested  in 
your  reasons  for  doing  whatever  you 
saw  fit  to  do.  We  cannot  and  would  not 
force  you  to  give  an  explanation.” 
“You’d  have  a hot  time  trying,”  as- 
sured Edham,  involuntarily  tightening 
his  fist. 

The  expert  was  very  observant.  Calm- 
ly he  regarded  the  fist,  estimated  the 
degree  of  muscular  contraction,  the 
amount  of  mental  tenison  behind  it.  Ed- 
ham forced  the  hand  to  open,  the  fingers 
to  relax.  The  other  was  not  deceived. 
“Have  you  been  beyond  the  walls?” 
“Yes.” 

“Have  you  actually  landed  outside  the 
walls  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Often  r 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  »5 


"Yes.” 

"Knowing  that  it  was  contrary  to 
instructions  ?” 

"Yes.” 

"And  dangerous?” 

Edham  said  nothing. 

The  expert  wrote  down  a couple  of 
little  squiggles  meaning,  Co-operative 
with  reluctance — but  truthful,  before  he 
went  off  on  another  tack. 

"Members  of  the  crew  are  checking 
over  the  state  of  the  plantation  and 
condition  of  the  ramparts.  Beyond  the 
wall  they  have  found  a bloodthirsty 
looking  creature,  thick-furred,  with 
striped  markings.  It  is  dead.  It  appears 
to  have  expired  recently,  in  mid-spring, 
claws  extended,  mouth  open.” 

He  stared  at  Edham,  who  remained 
silent.  He  placed  an  object  on  his  desk. 
"It  was  pierced  by  four  of  those.” 

The  object  was  a long  slender  arrow. 

"It  is  well-made,”  commented  the  ex- 
pert. "Skillfully  constructed  with  a 
needle-sharp  metal  head.  The  bow  from 
which  it  came  must  have  been  power- 
ful.” 

“It  was,”  Edham  acknowledged  in- 
differently. 

"Did  you  shoot  this  creature  from  the 
wall-top  or  were  you  in  the  outside 
grass  ?” 

“The  grass.” 

“A  bow,  a bow  and  arrows,”  com- 
mented the  other,  poking  the  pointed 
and  feathered  shaft  away  from  him. 
“He  uses  a primitive  type  of  weapon  in 
lieu  of  a modern  beam-projector.”  His 
gaze  lifted,  he  surveyed  Edham  curi- 
ously. “It  would  be  nice  to  learn  the 
logic  on  which  such  a preference  is 
based.” 

Edham  said,  “The  targets  are  just  as 
primitive.  They  struggle  with  what 
they’ve  got,  what  they  can  make  them- 
selves.” 

“I  see.”  The  leading  questioner 
glanced  at  his  silently  listening  fellows, 
returned  his  attention  to  Edham.  “You 
cannot  manufacture  a projector  which 
needs  all  the  craft  of  an  experienced 
armorer — ^but  you  can  make  a bow.  You 
derive  satisfaction  from  that?” 

“Yes.” 


“Why?” 

Both  his  fists  hardened  and  whitened 
as  Edham  leaned  forward  and  snapped, 
T am  Man !” 

“That  will  be  all,”  said  the  other. 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Redhead 


Edham  never  saw  the  reports.  Writ- 
ten conclusions  invariably  are 
withheld  from  the  Granor.  His  only  clue 
lay  in  the  length  of  the  deliberations 
and  the  frequent  summoning  of  Ra- 
fel,  who  looked  a mite  more  solemn  at 
each  successive  visit.  It  was  evident 
that  there  was  some  difference  of  opin- 
ion, some  profound  uncertainty  which 
made  the  question  of  triumph  or  fail- 
ure highly  debatable. 

Eventually  he  would  know  their  de- 
cision from  what  they  did  with  him.  If 
he  had  changed  in  manner  not  to  their 
liking  but  had  nothing  contagious,  they 
would  put  a black  mark  against  the  plan- 
et and  take  him  home. 

If  he  were  afflicted  with  something 
unwanted,  incurable  and  uncontrollable, 
they  would  abandon  him  along  with  his 
accursed  world  and  add  his  name  to 
those  upon  the  obelisk.  But  if  failure 
were  not  yet  certain  and  success  a pos- 
sibility, no  matter  how  remote,  they 
would  push  him  into  the  second  stage 
of  his  task. 

It  was  four  days  before  he  knew.  In 
that  time  the  crew  had  attended  to  all 
repairs,  overhauled  the  engine  and 
pumps,  installed  a remote  control  for 
the  latter,  supplied  fresh  spools  for  his 
autorecorder,  recharged  his  beam,  sup- 
plied new  wings  and  propulsion,  land- 
ed a huge  load  of  packaged  meals,  all 
duly  numbered.  They  did  not  touch  the 
plants.  The  living  would  go  on  living — 
the  dead  stay  dead. 

There  were  eight  females  with  the 
crew.  Moving  around  together  in  a lithe 
colorful  bunch,  they  explored  the  house, 
the  instrument  shed,  the  plantation.  In 


»6  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


single  file  they  trotted  along  the  wall- 
top,  chattering  like  birds,  laughing  in 
lilting  tones  and  exclaiming  from  time 
to  time  over  the  few  exotic  flowers  visi- 
ble in  the  jungle. 

All  were  young,  strong,  well-shaped. 
All  studied  Edham  with  clear  frank 
eyes  at  every  opportunity,  weighing  him 
up,  estimating  him.  For  his  part  he  tried 
to  avoid  them.  Their  presence  was  close- 
ly linked  with  his  fate.  He  was  acutely 
conscious  of  the  fact  and  embarrassed 
by  the  uncertainty  of  his  position. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
day  Rafel  came  to  him.  “The  confer- 
ence is  over.  I am  more  than  glad  to 
hear  the  end  of  it.  Yours  has  been  a 
difficult  case." 

“I  know.  I am  hairy.” 

Rafel  did  not  smile.  He  went  on, 
“They  say  you  have  changed  and  in  all 
probability  will  continue  to  do  so.  The 
purely  physical  features  of  it  are  innoc- 
uous. They  are  nothing  to  worry  about, 
nothing  to  fear.  Indeed,  some  of  them 
are  advantageous.” 

“Come  to  the  worst,"  Edham  suggest- 
ed impatiently. 

“It  is  the  psychological  shift  thafhas 
them  bothered.  They  detect  an  abnorm«^l 
combativeness  which,  in  theory,  could 
grow  until  it  becomes  completely  irra- 
tional." 

“This  life  of  mine  is  abnormal.  What 
do  they  expect?  The  dullness  of  a rou- 
tine worker  in  Dise?" 

“All  your  troubles  and  trials  have 
been  taken  into  account,"  said  Rafel. 
“After  considering  everything — even 
the  impetuosity  of  the  pioneer,  even 
boredom — they  find  more  bellicosity 
than  can  be  explained,  more  than  is 
natural  or  necessary.  It  is  the  little 
extra  you  have  absorbed  from  this  bel- 
licose world.  You  may  continue  to  ab- 
sorb it.  At  saturation  point — if  you  live 
to  reach  it — where  will  you  be?" 

"Sitting  around  and  not  permitting 
everything,"  Edham  answered.  “And 
laughing.” 

Letting  it  pass  Rafel  continued,  "Any- 
way, the  second  stage  of  this  planet- 
probing task  is  shorter,  less  trying.  You 
should  come  to  no  great  harm  if  we 


carry  on  awhile.  Besides  we  would  de- 
serve to  lose  a world  if  we  let  go  of  it  at 
the  first  setback.”  He  looked  straight  at 
Edham.  “Do  you  want  to  be  taken  home 
while  the  going  is  still  good  ?” 

Edham  said  in  level  tones,  “To  re- 
turn voluntarily  would  be  to  return  in 
disgrace,  to  be  pointed  out  as  the  Gra- 
nor  who  came  back  screaming.  Do  you 
think  I would  enjoy  that?  How  would 
you  like  a bust  on  the  nose?" 

“There  you  go  again:"  said  Rafel 
shrugging  good-humoredly.  “Well,  the 
die  is  cast.  It  is  for  you  to  go  through 
the  second  stage.” 

“With  whom?" 

"Of  the  eight  Companions  who  have 
seen  you  and  looked  over  this  place,  six 
have  volunteered.” 

“Two  don’t  like  me,  eh?" 

“Not  necessarily,”  denied  Rafel.  “For 
some  reason  which  is  beyond  my  mere 
male  mind  there  are  always  two  who 
want  to  see  the  next  place.  No  matter 
how  many  Companions  I take  out,  in- 
variably I return  with  two — eagerly 
awaiting  yet  another  world." 

“Feminine  curiosity,”  ventured  Ed- 
ham. 

“The  six  have  taken  first  pick  as  is 
the  right  of  their  sex.  It  is  now  your 
turn.” 

“Which  six?" 

Rafel  nodded  toward  somewhere  be- 
hind the  other’s  back.  “They  are  over 
there.  The  pair  of  transgalactic  tourists 
are  in  the  ship.” 

Without  looking  around  Edham  said, 
“If  the  tall,  slender  one  with  the  flam- 
ing hair  is  among  them — " 

“The  redhead.  So  be  it.  You  have 
chosen  your  Companion  as  she  has 
chosen  you."  Rafel  eyed  the  sky.  “I  will 
I>erform  the  ceremony  of  association 
this  evening  if  you  are  agreeable.  We 
will  depart  at  the  fourth  temper  of  to- 
morrow.” 

WITH  the  .morning  they  were  sum- 
moned to  the  vessel,  the  Granor 
and  his  Companion. 

Rafel  began  with,  “We  are  ready  to 
boost.  Is  there  anything  you  desire,  any- 
thing you  wish  to  ask  before  we  go?” 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  97 


“No,”  replied  Edham. 

“Are  you  satisfied  with  each  other?” 
He  smiled  as  he  read  the  answer  in  their 
faces.  "We  shall  return  in  about  three 
and  a half  years.  I hope  then  to  find 
evidence  in  favor  of  systematic  settle- 
ment. 

"If  so,  a time  may  come  when  more 
Divans  share  your  world,  building  it  to 
greatness.”  His  gaze  shifted  from  one 
face  to  the  other.  "You  will  have  much 
honor.” 

"Darn  the  honor,”  said  Edham.  "Give 
me  the  fun.” 

Trying  to  frown  his  disapproval,  Ra- 
fel  found  it  far  from  easy.  He  switched 
the  subject.  "Any  alterations  in  your- 
selves will  be  the  results  of  or  adjust- 
ment to  local  conditions.  Comparative- 
ly speaking  it  will  be  slow,  insidious.  It 
cannot  have  the  swiftness  and  extrem- 
ism of  radical  mutation.”  He  stopped, 
rubbed  his  forehead  while  he  sought 
around  for  further  words. 

"Meaning  our  children?”  EJdham 
prompted. 

Rafel  seized  upon  it  gratefully.  "We 
could  learn  more  of  real  significance 
from  your  children  than  we  can  ever 
learn  from  you.  Apart  from  other  yet 
undetected  peculiarities  this  planet  has 
a deal  of  radioactivity.  What  does  it 
mean  to  our  kind?  What  might  it  do?” 
He  spread  helpless  hands.  "We  don’t 
know.” 

"All  in  good  time,”  offered  Edham. 

"Your  children  are  very  much  to  be 
desired— by  us,”  Rafel  went  on.  “Never- 
theless I advise  you  not  to  have  any  un- 
less desired  by  you.” 

The  redhead  put  in  tartly,  "The  An- 
cient College  of  Granors’  Companions 
is  not  a consortium  for  the  stupid 
and — ” 

Hurriedly,  Rafel  countered  her.  "I 
am  reminding  you  that  Dise  imposes  no 
duty  upon  you  in  this  particular  re- 
spect. You  are  completely  free  to  please 
yourselves.” 

"That  goes  for  me,  too,”  she  said, 
blandly  shoving  him  off  balance. 

Recovering  he  stood  up,  made  his 
voice  serious.  "Except  in  one  respect — 
you  will  eat  nothing  native  to  this 


world.  It  is  strictly  forbidden.  When 
the  time  comes  to  try  subsisting  on  lo- 
cal products,  you  will  be  informed.” 

"Boxed-up  meals.”  She  sighed  re- 
gretfully. "Enriched,  concentrated,  re- 
duced, fastened  down  and  caged.  I took 
a tedious  course  on  them — How  to  Make 
Packaged  Food  Interesting.  Oh,  well.” 
She  patted  her  fiaming  hair,  tucked  a 
curl  behind  her  ear.  “There  are  other 
interests.” 

Eyeing  her  somewhat  askance  Rafel 
avoided  the  subject,  held  out  his  hand. 

TJie  two  stood  side  by  side  watching 
the  ship  go  up.  It  shrank  as  before,  was 
swallowed  up  by  a cloud,  was  gone. 

"And  that  is  that,”  remarked  Edham, 
sensing  the  loss  and  yet  glad  of  it. 

"What  now.  Flabby?”  she  inquired. 

"I  think  that  for  a start — ” His  voice 
petered  out,  his  eyes  suddenly  burned 
at  her.  "What  was  that  you  just  called 
me?” 

She  repeated  it  with  annoying  gusto, 
a smile  on  her  oval  face,  and  she  turned 
slightly  sidewise.  A growl  sounded  low 
in  his  chest.  He  pounced  at  her,  hands 
out,  fingers  wide.  She  was  away  like 
the  wind,  hair  streaming. 

It  was  a full  and  arduous  tempor  be- 
fore he  cornered  her  by  the  southern 
wall.  The  laughter  of  their  struggle 
brought  answering  howls  and  screams 
from  the  other  side  of  the  ramparts. 

More  imaginative  treatment  of 
meals  plus  the  comfort  of  her 
presence  transformed  the  area  into  a 
haven  of  peace  and  satisfaction — for  a 
time.  Edham  lazed  around,  ignored  the 
jungle,  enjoyed  his  new-found  domes- 
ticity. 

The  girl  had  a seemingly  endless  ca- 
pacity for  keeping  him  amused,  occupy- 
ing his  attention,  diverting  his  energies 
from  former  paths.  When  his  spell  of 
idleness  wore  off  she  found  him  numer- 
ous tasks  and  when  she  came  to  the  end 
of  those  she  invented  new  ones.  He  per- 
formed them  all  with  the  casual  uncom- 
plaining air  of  one  who  has  known  the 
weight  of  time  on  his  hands. 

Now  and  again  she  tantalized  him, 
apparently  on  sheer  impulse  born  of 


M THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


some  feminine  quirk.  Invariably  he 
failed  to  notice  that  such  occasions  were 
carefully  chosen. 

Thus,  for  example,  there  was  that 
moment  he  stood  at  the  west  end,  close 
by  the  wall,  looking  longingly  at  the  top 
and  sensing  once  more  the  urge  to  go 
out  and  do  battle  and  shout  with  tri- 
umph until  exhausted.  His  eyes  were 
shining,  his  chest  was  out,  brown- 
.‘ikinned  with  hairs  upon  it. 

She  came  silently  behind  him,  noting 
every  detail,  and  said,  “See  here,  Rug- 
hust,  I — ” Then  she  turned  and  fled  for 
her  life,  long  slender  legs  moving  with 
the  grace  of  a ballet-dancer’s. 

Three  jumps  behind  her  he  collided 
with  the  door  of  the  in.stryment  shed 
as  she  slammed  it  against  him.  He 
could  hear  her  squealing  with  excite- 
ment. Scrambling  onto  the  roof,  his 
muscles  bulged  as  he  began  to  tear  up 
a sheet  and  make  a gap  big  enough  to 
drop  through.  She  came  out  and  imme- 
diately he  realized  that  he’d  been 
fooled.  Her  wings  had  been  hidden  with- 
in. She  emerged  on  white  pinions,  soared 
gracefully,  waggled  pink  toes  just  be- 
yond leaping  distance  from  his  head. 

Perforce  he  had  to  go  back  to  the 
house,  don  his  own  wings.  It  was  near 
nightfall  before  he  got  her  at  tremen- 
dous height  in  the  base  of  a cloud.  By 
then  he  was  tired  and  hungry,  precisely 
as  she  had  calculated. 

None  of  this  went  into  the  autoro- 
corder.  The  blithe  waste  of  propulsor- 
power  was  part  of  the  mating  game  and 
there  were  no  dutiful  confessions  for 
the  ears  of  others. 

They  did  not  have  a real  difference 
until  a hundred  days  later  when  he 
came  in  for  the  noon  meal  and  found 
flowers  upon  the  table.  He  glowered  at 
the  blooms,  then  at  her. 

“Where  did  you  get  these?’’ 

“In  the  jungle.’’  The  reply  was  made 
with  disturbing  matter-of-factness  as 
she  placed  a steaming  dish  upon  the 
table  and  seated  herself. 

“So  you  have  been  outside  the  walls 
without  my  knowledge  while  my  atten- 
tion was  diverted  elsewhere?” 

“Of  course.” 


“There  are  dangerous  creatures  in  the 
jungle.” 

“I  know  it." 

He  was  chewing  his  bottom  lip  and 
glowering  at  her  now.  “You  could  be 
torn  to  pieces.” 

“So  could  you.”  Her  eyes  came  up, 
faintly  accusing  and  at  the  same  time 
expressing  the  resignation  of  one  who 
has  tried  in  vain  to  control  a mis- 
chievous child. 

“I  know  how  to  look  after  myself.” 

“So  do  I.” 

“Hah!”  he  exclaimed.  "Hah!" 

She  snapped  at  him.  “All  right,  Fun- 
gus-front, go  out  and  see  for  yourself. 
It’s  just  over  the  south  wall.” 

Giving  her  a look  he  went  out,  inves- 
tigated, came  back  and  said,  “You  killed 
it  while  you  had  both  feet  on  the  ground. 
You  beamed  it  face  to  face.” 

“That’s  me,”  she  admitted.  “Man  to 
man!” 

“It  wasn’t  a man.  Neither  are  you.” 

Putting  shapely  elbows  on  the  table 
she  rested  her  chin  in  one  hand  and 
made  her  voice  sugar-sweet.  “What  I 
like  about  you  is  your  swift  grasp  of 
things.” 

“Then  how  about  this?”  he  retorted, 
making  a quick  grab  across  the  table, 
fingers  crooked  for  a coil  of  thick  red 
hair. 

The  snatch  missed  solely  because  the 
table  jumped.  The  floor  jumped  with 
it.  The  house  performed  a brief  jig.  A 
dull  cavernous  rumbling  sounded  from 
east  to  west.  The  stony  ramparts  quiv- 
ered along  their  full  length.  'The  rumble 
ended  in  a faraway  crack. 

“What  was  that?”  she  asked,  sitting 
erect,  wide-eyed,  startled. 

“A  quake.”  He  leaned  back,  stared  at 
his  grabbing  hand  while  he  cooled  off. 
“They  come  once  in  awhile.  Elsewhere 
they’re  more  frequent  and  much  more 
violent.  Elsewhere  they’re  really  some- 
thing !” 

She  thought  it  over  for  awhile,  said 
suddenly,  “Do  you  believe  in  precog- 
nition ?” 

“It  is  a subject  that  has  been  argued 
for  a thou.sand  years  and  will  be  for 
another  thousand.  I have  no  opinion 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  99 


about  it.”  He  studied  her  curiously. 
“Why  do  you  ask?” 

“To  take  unnecessary  risks  is  against 
the  rules.  Yet  despite  that,  despite  your 
training,  despite  my  attempts  to  divert 
you,  the  jungle  calls  you — until  you 
obey.”  Her  long  fingers  toyed  with  each 
other  nervously. 

“So  last  evening,  when  you  thought 
yourself  unobserved,  you  went  outside 
With  your  bow.  And  this  morning  I went 
outside  for  flowers — ^the  flowers  you 
have  never  brought  me.” 

He  flinched  at  that  and  began,  “I 
would  gladly  bring  them  if  you  did  not 
criticize  the  getting  and — ” 

“You  misunderstand  me.  I am  not 
criticizing  you.  Not  any  more.”  The 
hands  folded.  “You  see  I feel  as  you  do 
— I yearn  to  gd  outside.” 

'‘You  do?” 

“The  desire  grows,  encouraged  by 
your  bad  example.”  Her  gaze  upon  him 
was  thoughtful,  speculative.  “Do  you 
suppose  that  something  may  be  impell- 
ing us  to  get  aecustomed  to  the  jungle — 
while  there  is  time?” 

It  made  him  vaguely  uneasy. 
“Instinct  is  a peculiar  thing,"  she 
went  on.  “It  comes  to  animals  and  birds 
a.s  a mixture  of  precognition  and  ances- 
tral memory  and  helps  them  survive.” 
The  steadiness  of  her  gaze  unsettled  him 
as  she  finished,  “Why  do  you  crave  the 
green  hell?" 

“I  get  restless.” 

“WhyT’ 

“Kind  of  have  the  fidgets  sometimes.” 
“Whyr’ 

“Oh,  heck !”  he  said,  giving  it  up. 
“Take  me  with  you  next  time  you  go 
out,”  she  pleaded.  “Two  together  are 
safer  than  one — and  I get  such  a won- 
derful feeling  of  freedom  beyond  the 
walls.” 

It  was  his  turn  to  come  back  with, 
“V/hy?” 

“Because  I know  that  this  world  will 
take  us  only  on  its  own  terms.  Not  on 
ours  but  on  its  own.  We  must  be  ready.” 
"My  luck,”  he  commented,  making  a 
mock-frown  at  the  ceiling.  “Just  my 
luck.  I need  a Companion  who  is  pink 
and  soft  and  warm  and  understanding. 


I pick  one  and  what  do  I get?  A seer ! A 
long-legged  second-sighter ! A prophet 
of  disaster!  A red  witch!” 

“Think  of  the  remarkable  children  we 
could  have,”  she  jibed,  “With  your  hair 
and  my  magical  powers.  Furry  demons.” 
“Be  quiet,”  he  ordered.  His  shoulders 
hunched  to  rid  themselves  of  a cold  lit- 
tle shiver.  There  are  jokes — and  there 
are  jokes. 


CHAPTER  VU 
Rejected 


ISASTER  came  in  the  midsummer 
of  Edham’s  eighth  year  and  his 
Companion’s  second.  There  was  no 
warning,  no  preliminary  sounding  of 
some  deep  note  of  doom.  Indeed  at  first 
there  was  nothing  to  show  that  an  ex- 
periment was  being  ended  in  order  that 
a new  one  might  begin.  All  that  hap- 
pened was  that  the  sun  shone. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  seen 
the  sun  from  this  planet’s  surface.  Up 
to  date  there  had  been  only  the  great 
blanket  of  cloud  overhead,  darkening 
or  glowing  and  pouring  heat  by  day, 
deepening  the  nights  and  hiding  the 
stars.  Always  the  fierce  primary  had 
been  concealed. 

Now  the  clouds  broke  widely,  reveal- 
ing a bronze-blue  sky  in  which  the  sun 
burned  with  awful  vim  and  sent  down 
stinging  rays.  Edham  studied  it  through 
a dark  glass,  saw  a great  spot  upon  its 
tormented  surface.  The  visual  radio- 
scope in  his  instrument  shed  picked  up 
a mass  of  flickering  shadows  and  swift- 
ly changing  checkered  patterns  indica- 
tive of  violent  disturbances  across  all 
bands. 

By  day  and  by  night  the  heat  was 
terrific.  At  first  it  did  not  bother  the 
red-haired  Companion.  She  came  from 
Ultra-Dise,  a planet  far  hotter  than 
Disc  itself,  and  thus  was  well  fitted  to 
endure  the  blaze.  But  as  the  sun  burned 
on,  week  upon  week,  she  began  to  wilt 
along  with  the  barely  surviving  plants, 


100  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


along  with  the  wilting  jungle. 

In  the  seventh  week  the  last  tortured 
Disian  plant  gave  up  its  eight-year-old 
battle  and  lay  in  the  hot  dust.  Smoke 
from  fires  in  the  dehydrated  jungle 
drifted  over  the  walled  area,  brought 
with  it  a stench  of  burning  flesh  and 
hide.  A small  quake  came,  followed  by 
another  and  another  while  still  the  orb 
flamed  in  the  sky  and  the  shrinking  riv- 
ers steamed. 

With  the  death  of  the  last  hodhi  tree 
the  Companion’s  uncomplaining  endur- 
ance ended.  She  posed  taut  but  tired  in 
the  hot  shadow  of  the  instrument  shed, 
looked  across  the  barren  area  shimmer- 
ing with  heat-waves. 

"There  is  that  deep  cave  we  found 
in  the  mountainside  far  across  the  riv- 
er. It  is  cool,  comfortable  and  has  water 
at  its  back.  I think  it  might  have  been 
better  had  we  moved  there  when  first  we 
discovered  it.” 

"A  Granor  does  not  desert  his  post 
for  the  sake  of  comfort.”  He  wiped  his 
forehead  with  the  back  of  a hairy  hand, 
kept  his  eyes  away  from  the  blazing 
thing  in  the  sky. 

“I  know,  I know.  I am  with  you  while 
there  is  duty  to  be  done.”  She  surveyed 
the  dust  of  their  hopes.  “There  is  now  no 
post  to  desert — nothing  but  four  walls. 
The  alien  sun  has  eaten  everything.  Are 
we  going  to  let  it  consume  us  too?” 

“We  should  hang  on  and  wait  for  Ra- 
fel,”  he  said. 

“What — for  at  least  another  year  and 
a half?  Of  what  use  to  Rafel  are  whit- 
ened bones?” 

"We  have  enough  food.” 

"One  cannot  live  on  food  alone.  One 
must  have  water  and  sleep.  One  must 
have  sleep.”  She  eyed  him  slantwise. 
“How  much  have  you  slept?” 

“Little.  It  is  too  hot.  We  must  suffer 
until  the  clouds  come  back.” 

“Not  me,”  she  declared  flatly.  “What 
is  left  to  merit  the  suffering?  Nothing! 
Tonight  I shall  slumber  peacefully  in  the 
cool  of  the  cave  even  if  I sleep  alone, 
even  if  it  is  my  last  sleep  on  this  world.” 
With  that  she  went  for  her  wings. 

He  remained,  pondering  gloomily. 
After  awhile  he  put  on  his  wings  and 


followed  her — as  she  had  known  he 
would. 

They  were  asleep  in  the  cave  ten 
nights  afterward  when  the  great  quake 
that  shook  their  mountain  range  flat- 
tened the  distant  plantation’s  south  wall, 
blocked  the  west  river,  created  a great, 
shallow  stinking  lake  which  lapped  close 
to  the  remaining  ramparts.  Thirsty 
monsters,  half-crazed  by  heat,  made  the 
lake  their  drinking-place,  the  broken 
area  their  stamping-ground. 

Throughout  the  following  week  Ed- 
ham  battled  more  savage  life-forms 
than  he  had  tackled  in  any  one  year.  Un- 
der the  merciless  sun  he  swooped  down 
wide-winged,  beamed  them  away  from 
the  house,  rescued  packages  of  food  and 
took  them  to  the  cave.  He  made  trips  by 
night,  expecting  less  opposition,  but 
they  were  there  in  even  greater  num- 
bers, red-toothed  and  eager  for  him. 

Thus  the  food  stocks  were  laboriously 
reduced  in  loads  pitifully  small.  'The  cost 
approximated  one  killing  per  package 
plus  the  risk  of  his  own  violent  ending. 
The  area  swarmed  with  ferocious  forms 
as  did  every  place  within  easy  reach  of 
water.  The  world  screamed  for  water 
and,  having  got  it,  wanted  flesh. 

On  something  over  his  one  hundredth 
trip  he  returned  to  the  cave  so  borne 
down  by  his  burden  that  he  barely  es- 
caped the  brown  scalded  tops  of  trees 
from  which  menacing  worms  had  long 
vanished.  At  that  point  his  propulsor 
expired.  Too-frequent  usage  and  heavy 
overloading  had  dried  up  the  power 
source.  The  wings  were  useless. 

Food  is  more  important  than  flight. 
Using  his  Ck)mpanion’s  equipment  he 
continued  the  trips,  transported  to  the 
cave  more  than  half  the  stock  of  the 
distant  house  before  the  second  propul- 
sor failed.  They  were  landbound.  They 
were  at  one  with  the  animals,  the  things 
that  crept  through  the  shadows  and 
could  never  reach  the  sky. 

It  seemed  a major  blow  to  Edham 
since  the  remaining  stores  now  were  ten 
days’  march  away  with  every  step  dis- 
puted. To  his  Companion  it  was  a secret 
relief.  Now  she  had  him  close  by  and 
did  not  have  to  scan  the  skies  at  every 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  101 


flight,  praying  for  his  safe  return. 

Both  beam  projectors  continued  to 
function  long  after  clouds  had  reap- 
peared to  hide  the  sun  and  right  through 
the  raging  winter.  One  petered  out  with 
the  spring — the  other  eighty  days  later. 
They  turned  to  bows,  fought  the  re- 
viving jungle,  consumed  its  fruits,  ate 
of  its  flesh,  grew  heavy  yet  more  agile. 

They  quaffed  the  undistilled  water 
which  seeped  from  the  rock  at  the  back 
of  the  cave  and  they  did  not  fall  ill,  they 
did  not  die.  Neither  the  water  nor  the 
food  nor  the  past  torment  of  that  violent 
sun  made  them  diseased  or  misshapen. 

No  change  was  apparent  to  them  ex- 
cept that  the  longer  they  knew  the 
jungle  the  more  it  seemed  like  home — 
for  they  did  not  realize  that  they  had 
developed  a swift,  abiding  fury  equal 
to  its  own. 

Eternal  hope  kept  them  from 
being  completely  absorbed  by  this 
world.  No  matter  how  powerfully 
surged  the  passions  it  induced  within 
them  they  held  fast  to  respective  mem- 
ories of  Dise  and  Ultra-Dise  and  to  the 
dream  of  being  found  on  Rafel’s  return. 

Yet,  sti'angely,  along  with  the  desire 
to  be  discovered  lurked  another  fre- 
quently-repressed wish  that  neither 
mentioned  to  the  other  and  that  they 
denied  even  to  themselves — the  hope 
that  discovery  would  not  mean  removal. 
This  world  had  not  yet  taken  them  body 
and  soul  but  it  was  establishing  by  in- 
sidious means  a claim  that  grew  strong- 
er temper  by  temper,  day  by  day. 

“I  have  found  golden  grain  to  the 
east.  Bristle-body.  I don’t  know  how  or 
why  the  animals  have  missed  it.  Big, 
beautiful  heads  of  grain." 

“Probably  it  isn’t  ,fit  to  eat.” 

“I  tried  it  on  myself  a week  ago.” 
“You — ” His  deeply  tanned  face  went 
taut.  “You  might  have  died." 

“So  might  you  this  morning  when  you 
fought  that  beast  which  we  did  not  need 
for  meat." 

“It  was  interested  in  the  cave.  I per- 
mit nothing  near  the  cave.”  He  bunched 
a fist.  “I  am  Man!” 

“Then  you  can  nudee  me  a stone 


grinder,”  she  said.  “If  I had  a grinder  I 
could  make  flour  and  bread  and  cakes.” 
"Cakes!”  he  spat.  “In  this  place." 
“YouHl  see,"  she  promised,  not  the 
least  bit  disturbed  by  his  attitude.  "Fruit 
cakes  and  meat  patties.  Real  food !” 
“Forbidden  food.” 

“What  else  is  there?" 

“The  packages  I took  such  pains  to 
get.” 

“They  will  not  last.  Eventually  we 
shall  have  to  subsist  only  on  what  thi.s 
world  has  to  offer  and  chance  what  it 
does  to  us.  We  might  as  well  start  now. 
I’m  not  afraid.” 

“Not  afraid  but  impetuous.” 

She  studied  his  heavily  muscular 
body,  clad  in  the  colorful  skin  of  some 
animal  he  had  slaughtered,  shifted  her 
gaze  to  the  powerful  bow  grasped  in  his 
right  hand  and  said,  “Listen  to  who’s 
talking.” 

“I  will  make  a grinder  and  you  can 
have  your  cakes,”  he  agreed,  conscious 
of  unspoken  accusations.  “And  may  the 
stars  preserve  us!" 

“From  what?  From  this  world’s 
fruits?  We  have  been  eating  them  al- 
ready and  flesh  as  well.  Can  more  fruit 
do  any  worse?” 

“If  their  dangerous  properties  are  ac- 
cumulative we  can  step  over  the  margin 
between  enough  and  too  much.  Besides 
you  and  I might  gorge  ourselves  to  the 
limit  of  our  capacity  without  ill  effect 
upon  ourselves  but — ^but — ” 

“Our  diildren?” 

“Yes." 

She  took  a step  toward  him.  “Do  you 
wish  for  children?" 

“Do  you?"  he  countered. 

“Of  course.” 

“No  matter  what  they  may  be  like — 
or  not  like?" 

“They  would  still  be  ours,”  she 
pointed  out. 

“Unrecognizably  perhaps.” 

“I  would  always  know  my  own  re- 
gardless— and  I am  not  afraid." 

“But  as  I have  already  said  you  are 
impetuous,"  he  gave  back  more  gently. 
“Wouldn’t  it  be  better  first  to  wait  for 
the  vessel  and  learn  our  fate?” 
“Perhaps,”  she  admitted  relaxing. 


102  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


She  watched  him  as  he  tightened  his 
bow,  watched  him  stride  down  the  path 
from  the  cave  and  enter  between  the 
trees.  Something  far  back  in  the  trees 
screamed  its  anger  at  his  coming  while 
she  still  watched. 

“A-a-ah!” 

The  great  vessel  from  Disc — it  was 
like  some  misty  figment  of  a bygone 
dream.  A phantom  of  the  past,  hoped 
for  yet  feared. 

A thing  of  dreams  it  seemed  when 
at  last  it  did  come  down.  Deep  in  their 
cave  at  dead  of  night  they  heard  a whine 
come  through  the  sky  and  resolve  itself 
to  the  thunderous  roar  of  hot  venturis. 

They  ran  to  the  cave’s  mouth,  saw  a 
ring  of  crimson  spears  floating  over  the 
distant  plantation.  The  spears  short- 
ened, went  out.  Thunder  ceased.  For  a 
moment  they  gazed  at  each  other  like 
people  who  have  seen  the  impossible 
come  to  pass. 

Edham  got  the  tiny  signal  generator 
which  he  had  rescued  from  the  house, 
drew  out  its  telescopic  antenna,  cranked 
the  handle  bemusedly.  Somewhere  over 
there,  far  away  in  the  dark,  loops  were 
swinging  to  get  his  bearing.  But  his 
thoughts  were  not  of  that.  They  were 
of  the  threatening  upheaval  to  his  way 
of  life. 

Winged  members  of  the  crew  arrived 
and  took  them  high  above  the  trees, 
back  to  the  ship.  There  was  huge  ex- 
citement and  much  congratulating  be- 
fore they  were  passed  along  to  the  ex- 
aminers. 

The  poking  and  prying  was  much 
longer,  more  tedious  than  before  and 
almost  unbearably  irritating — but  the 
decision  came  more  quickly. 

Rafel  summoned  them  before  him. 
“The  plantation  has  ceased  to  exist 
through  no  fault  of  yours.  All  Di- 
growths  have  long  gone,  this  world  hav- 
ing proved  too  much  for  them.’’  His 
tones  were  solemn,  regretful.  “In  the 
circumstances  we  must  reject  this 
planet.  It  is  unsuitable  for  settlement.” 
Then  he  added,  "But  I can  comfort  John 
by  telling  him  that  he  was  not  entirely 
wrong.” 


Edham  said,  “How  do  you  mean?” 

“I  said  this  planet  is  of  no  use  to  us. 
Someday  it  may  be.  We  have  tried  it 
too  early,  many  centuries  too  early.” 
“So  it  seems,”  commented  Edham, 
dryly.  “If  we  two  can  survive  among 
the  beasts,  so  can  others.” 

Rafel  shot  back  at  him,  “In  what 
shape?” 

There  was  no  effective  answer,  no  an- 
swer at  all.  Edham  fidgeted  with  the 
sheer  impotence  of  it,  stared  back  at 
him,  said  nothing. 

“I  have  the  examiners’  report  here,” 
Rafel  went  on,  eyeing  the  written  scroll. 
“I  am  not  permitted  to  give  it  to  you  in 
detail  but  I can  state  the  conclusions. 
They  say  you  may  stay  here  or  return 
to  Dise — at  your  own  choice.” 

Silent  up  to  that  moment  the  redhead 
shrewdly  noted  his  forced  impassive- 
ness, asked,  “Suppose  we  elect  to  go 
back,  what  then?” 

With  great  reluctance,  Rafel  told  her, 
"There  must  be  no  issue  of  your  asso- 
ciation.” 

“So  that’s  the  snag.  Always  a Com- 
panion but  never  a mother.” 

“I  am  sorry.  Truly  I am  sorry.  The 
basic  law  must  be  obeyed  even  when  it 
thwarts  the  rights  of  individuals,  and 
that  law  says  Disians  remain  Disians 
now  and  forevermore.  The  law  says  un- 
Disians  are  non-Disians  except  when 
scientifically  produced  under  proper  con- 
trol. Much  as  I would  like  to  do  so,  for 
your  sake  it  is  beyond  the  power  of  a 
mex’e  ship’s  commander  to  modify  a 
basic  law  and — ” 

“I  prefer  to  stay,”  she  interrupted. 
Her  air  was  too  positive,  too  decided  to 
permit  argument. 

Rafel’s  gaze  moved  inquiringly  to  Ed- 
ham, who  responded  with,  “Since  you 
reject  it  this  world  is  ours,  entirely  ours, 
every  stick  and  stone  of  it  ours!  Who 
wouM  surrender  a world  for  the  comfort 
of  Dise?” 

“You  sadden  me,”  said  RafeJ.  He 
sighed  resignedly.  “So  be  it.  I shall  put 
a red  mark  against  this  planet  to  in- 
dicate that  it  is  not  condemned  for  all 
time,  that  it  may  be  suitable  in  the 
future.”  With  slight  emphasis,  looking 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  103 


at  Edham,  he  repeated,  “The  distant 
ftiture.’’ 

"I  know  what  you  mean,*’  Edham  as- 
.surcd.  “And  I do  not  care.  A Granor 
does  not  care — can  you  believe  that?” 

“Most  certainly.  To  be  a Granor  one 
must  not  care — ^much." 

“Anyway  I’ve  a feeling  about  this,” 
chipped  in  the  Companion,  blithely  ex- 
ercising her  feminine  precognition.  “In 
the  distant  future  to  which  you  refer 
the  next  visit  may  be  from  here.  What 
of  the  law  of  Dise  then?” 

“They  will  permit  the  unavoidable,” 
remarked  Edham,  giving  Rafel  no  time 
to  reply. 

Frowning  a little  Rafel  shrugged  it 
off.  “We  shall  give  you  new  wings,  new 
beam  projectors,  anything  else  you  may 
require.  They  will  last  awhile  and  be  of 
some  help.  More  than  that  I cannot  do. 
When  those  things  are  exhausted  there 
will  be  no  further  help  and  you  will  have 
to  continue  as  best  you  can." 

“We  have  managed  without  them.  We 
call  do  so  again.” 

“I  know.  I shall  make  a full  report 
upon  it.  Your  names  will  be  honored  in 
your  respective  colleges  and  you  will  be 
remembered.” 

“While  we  hasten  to  forget,”  re- 
marked Edham. 

It  embarra.ssed  Rafel.  He  covered  up 
by  saying,  “May  the  eternal  stars  be 
with  you,”  and  went  away. 

In  due  time  Edham  watched  the  ship 
go  up  and  noted  with  only  a hint  of  sur- 
prise that  the  finality  of  its  departure 
created  no  emotion  within  him.  There 
were  queer  insubstantial  tentacles  hold- 
ing him  to  the  dirt  of  this  restless  world. 


alienating  him  from  that  other  world 
of  his  youth.  His  psychic  shape  had 
changed  invisibly. 

It  was  geohypnosis,  the  cunning  fas- 
cination of  a sphere. 

The  ship  went  through  the  clouds.  In 
silence  they  used  their  new  wings  to 
transport  equipment  to  the  cave.  The 
task  was  easier  this  time  for  the  great 
vessel’s  blasting  sirrival  and  fiery  de- 
parture had  driven  every  hostile  form 
from  the  vicinity. 

Three-walled,  open-ended  and  dead 
beneath  the  twilight  sky,  the  area  that 
once  had  been  a place  of  hope  held  them 
musing  a little  while  on  their  final  trip. 
In  the  days  when  it  flourished  and  was 
thought  of  as  a sometime-city  the  wom- 
an had  blessed  it  with  its  future  name. 
To  please  her  he  had  carved  it  upon  the 
wall  now  broken  by  one  belly-heave  of  a 
world  not  yet  ready  for  names  or  walls. 

He  was  gazing  set-faced  at  the  shat- 
tered name  when  she  asked,  “What  is 
the  matter?” 

“I  am  laughing.” 

She  grasped  his  hand.  “Come — come 
with  me." 

So  together  they  fled  from  Para-Diae 
and  set  forth  into  the  land  and  begat 
many  children,  all  of  their  own  shape 
but  none  truly  of  their  kind. 

The  first  was  a murderer. 

The  second,  his  victim. 

The  fifth  had  a yellow  skin  and  tilted 
eyes. 

Only  the  tenth  had  red  hair. 

The  twelfth  was  born  black. 

But  the  seed  of  this  seed  subdued  and 
mastered  the  stormy  world  which  some 
call  Terra. 


Coming  Next  Im«m:  THE  NEW  REALITY,  a brHIIon*  novelet  of  perHowe 
experiment*  by  CHARLES  L.  HARNESS — and  many  other  storied 


0 Novelet  by  SAM  MERWIN,  JR 


3hs  tenth 

DEGREE 


CHAPTER  I 


Hidden  Foes 


Margot  holmes,  bride  of  the"' 

Nizam  Hassan  ben  Sabah  XVIII 
of  Molahidstan,  picked  up  the  gold 
plated  telephone  in  the  boudoir  of  her 
Pasadena  palace.  She  said,  “Hello,”  in 
the  low  vibrant  voice  that  had  helped, 
along  with  her  blond  beauty,  to  make 
her  a reigning  cinema  belle,  listened  to 
the  crackling  accents  of  “Dapper  Dan” 
Wilstach,  production  chief  of  her  em- 
ployers, Colossal  Films. 

“Listen,  baby,”  he  told  his  most  val- 
uable human  property,  “Rita  just  died 
at  Los  Angeles  Hospital.” 


“No !”  said  the  actress,  frankly  horri- 
fied. “But  you  told  me  it  was  nothing 
serious.  And  she  was  all  right  this  after- 
noon on  the  set.” 

“You  don’t  know  the  half  of  it,”  said 
the  producer,  his  voice  thin  with  strain. 
“There’s  going  to  be  a post-mortem.  The 
doctors  seem  to  think  there  was  some- 
thing off-color  about  it.” 

“But  that’s  absurd,”  said  Margot, 
tossing  back  the  long  golden  mane  of 
her  hair  in  an  unconscious  gesture  of 
defiance  at  fate.  “How  could  anyone 
possibly  hurt  Rita — and  why?  She  was 
104 


Yoga  is  matched  against  the 


so  darned  decent  to  everyone.” 

“It’s  driving  me  out  of  my  mind,” 
said  the  producer.  “Listen — ^you  think  I 
want  this  sort  of  publicity?  But  they 
found  something — a poisoned  dart  in 
her  back.  Sure,  I know  it  couldn’t  have 
happened.  But  it  did.” 

“Poor  Rita,”  said  Margot  softly.  “She 
was  a lot  more  than  a maid  to  me.” 

"I  know,”  said  Dapper  Dan.  “Is  there 
anything  the  studio  can  do?” 

"No,  I’ll  take  care  of  things  with  her 
family  myself,”  Margot  told  him.  Then, 
frowning,  “But  how — why — who?" 


“We’re  going  crazy  and  so  are  the 
cops,”  the  producer  told  her.  “Some- 
body got  her  through  a dressing  room 
window  apparently.” 

"Yes,”  said  Margot,  chilling,  “and 
she  was  fitting  a new  costume  of  mine.” 
Rita  had  done  considerable  duty  a.s  a 
stand-in  for  her  mistress. 

“We’ve  thought  of  that  already," 
Dapper  Dan  told  her.  “We’ve  already 
got  guards  on  their  way  to  keep  your 
grounds  clear  of  prowlers.” 

“Thanks,  Dan,”  said  the  actress.  “But 
how  could  anyone  have  got  into  the 


105 


106  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 

courtyard  to  kill  her?” 


“It’s  insane,”  said  Wilstach.  "One  of 
the  script  gdrls  claims  she  saw  a big 
streamlined  trailer  in  there — and  a 
bunch  of  guys  with  turbans.  She  didn’t 
pay  any  attention  at  the  time  but  it 
wasn’t  there  when  she  went  back.  And 
get  this” — ^the  producer’s  voice  was  sud- 
denly ice-hard — "We  aren’t  shooting  a 
single  Oriental  production  on  the  lot. 
But  don’t  worry,  baby.  Everything’s 
under  control.” 

Margot  hung  up  and  sat  on  the  foot 
of  the  divan,  her  hands  clasped  so  tight- 
ly the  knuckles  showed  white.  Rita  was 
dead — her  one  personal  link  with  the 
Margot  Holmes  who  had  come  out  of 
the  home  of  an  obscure  Scranton  high 
school  history  teacher  to  work  her  way 
up  the  ladder  of  show  business. 

Her  brothers  and  sister  had  long 
since  drifted  into  marriage  and 
careers  of  their  own  in  remote  parts  of 
the  country.  Her  parents  were  dead  and 
the  old  house  in  Scranton  had  been  torn 
down  to  make  way  for  a supermarket. 
She — Margot  Holmes,  bride  of  the  Niz- 
am of  Molahidstan — ^was  now  utterly 
alone. 

There  was  a soft  knock  at  the  door 
of  her  boudoir  and  for  a moment  terror 
rose  to  engulf  her.  It  would  be  one  of 
them — her  husband  or  his  slyly  ob- 
sequious vizier,  Ibn  ul  Melik,  perhaps 
one  of  the  other  catlike  Orientals  who 
moved  swiftly,  efficiently  and  anony- 
mously about  their  duties  in  this  honey- 
moon house  that  had  become,  for  her, 
a house  of  horror.  Her  voice  trembled 
as  she  said,  “Come  in.” 

It  was  Ben,  her  husband,  and  he 
came  to  her  and  picked  her  up  and  she 
was  rigid  and  shivering  in  his  arms.  His 
strong  sensitive  mouth  turned  tender 
in  the  smile  of  his  sad  concern.  She  met 
his  dark  eyes  almost  furtively  and  then 
her  fears  dissolved  into  tears  and  she 
pressed  close  against  him,  sobbing  and 
clinging  like  a little  girl. 

“Darling,  I know  how  fond  you  were 
of  Rita,”  he  told  her  gently  when  at 
length  the  spell  had  subsided.  “But  you 
mustn’t  let  it  overwhelm  you.  Remem- 


ber, Margot,  you  still  have  me.” 

"Oh,  yes,  Ben  sweet,  but  it’s  not 
that,”  she  said  and  the  fear  came  rush- 
ing back.  After  all,  who  was  this  man 
she  had  married  just  two  months  be- 
fore after  her  European  vacation  had 
developed  into  a whirlwind  courtship 
that  had  made  headlines  around  the 
world  ? How,  despite  the  passion  which 
had  drawn  them  to  one  another,  could 
she  tell  what  he  was  thinking,  plan- 
ning? 

“What  is  it  then?”  he  asked  her.  "I 
have  a right  to  know.” 

Yes,  she  thought,  he  had  a right — if 
he  did  not  already  know.  She  sat  down 
at  a luxurious  dressing  table,  topped  by 
near-regiments  of  costly  and  decorative 
bottles,  jars  of  scent  and  cosmetics,  and 
attempted  to  repair  the  ravages  of 
tears.  Her  voice  was  unnaturally  stac- 
cato as  she  talked. 

“First  it  was  Chi-Chi,”  she  said.  Chi- 
Chi,  a tiny  North  African  monkey,  was 
the  first  present  the  Nizam  had  given 
her,  shortly  after  their  celebrated  first 
meeting  at  Cannes.  Chi-Chi,  almost  un- 
naturally smart,  had  become  almost  as 
fond  of  his  mistress  as  of  sweets,  had 
been  as  delightful  as  a kitten  that  would 
never  grow  up. 

But,  ten  days  ago,  Chi-Chi  had  died. 
Rita  had  found  him,  doubled  up  and 
stiff,  his  tiny  hands  on  his  swollen  little 
abdomen,  lying  beside  a ripped-open 
box  of  liqueur-filled  bonbons  on  the 
chaise  longue  in  this  very  room. 

“It’s  ill-luck,”  said  the  Nizam  grave- 
ly. “Sooner  or  later,  Margot,  we  must 
all  grow  accustomed  to  the  fact  that  all 
which  lives  must  die.  It  is  a mark  of 
maturity.” 

“I’m  aware  of  that,”  said  Margot, 
almost  coldly.  There  h^  been  her  par- 
ents— her  youngest  brother  killed  over 
Schweinfurt  in  a bombing  raid  during 
the  war — ^there  had  been  others. 

"Those  candies  were  sent  to  me,”  she 
went  on.  "Chi-Chi  ate  some  of  them  and 
died.  Now  Rita  is  dead.  She  was  mur- 
dered in  my  dressing  room  by  a poi- 
soned dart— wearing  my  costume. 

"Ben,”  she  turned  now  and  looked  up 
at  him  frankly,  “don’t  tell  me  I’m 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  lOT 


crazy.  But  someone  is  trying  very  hard 
to  kill  me.  Do  you  have  any  idea  who 
it  could  be?" 

He  stared  at  her,  his  eyes  oddly  flat. 
He  said,  “That’s  a very  peculiar  ques- 
tion to  ask  me,  don't  you  think?” 

“I  know  it,  darling,”  she  told  him. 
T'm  sorry — but  I’ve  been  feeling  the 
darnedest  sense  of  hostility  around 
here,  of  smug  anticipation  of  something 
about  to  happen.  Rita  felt  it.” 

“I  too  am  worried,”  he  said,  his  eyes 
once  more  flat  and  unreadable.  “Dar- 
ling, there  is  something  I must  do — for 
if  by  any  chance — ” He  shook  his  head, 
ran  a hand  over  his  brown  hair.  “No,” 
he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 
"It  isn’t  possible.  They  wouldn’t  dare." 

“Who  wouldn’t  dare  what?”  inquired 
Margot  practically.  Not  in  his  arms 
she  felt  the  fears  begin  to  rise  like  mists 
from  the  floor,  to  engulf  her  slowly  with 
their  dreadful  half-seen  shapes. 

“To  harm  you,”  said  the  Nizam 
quietly,  and  beneath  his  iron  control 
■she  could  sense  the  rage — a rage  that 
gave  her  comfort. 

“Why  harm  me?”  said  Margot. 
“Because  I love  you  too  much  for 
their  liking,”  her  husband  told  her,  his 
eyes  soft.  “Perhaps  I shouldn’t  have 
married  you.  I’m  not  my  own  master. 
Remember  I am  the  head  of  a religion 
as  well  as  a people.  But  I never  thought 
they’d  dare  to  try  to  harm  you.” 

"They  haven’t  yet,”  said  Margot 
quickly,  hating  to  see  her  husband  so 
miserable.  “And  if  you  hadn’t  married 
me  I think  I’d  have — ” 

“But  they  will  keep  on  trying,”  he 
said,  interrupting  as  if  he  hadn’t  heard 
her  final  words.  “They’ll  keep  on  try- 
ing unless  I — ” He  looked  through  her, 
his  eyes  hard.  “I’ve  got  to  go  to  them 
and  stop  it.  Only  I can.” 

“Where  must  you  go,  Ben?”  she 
asked.  But  he  merely  shook  his  head 
and  held  both  her  hands  briefly. 

“I  can’t  tell  you,  darling,”  he  said. 
“Trust  me.”  He  strode  from  the  room. 

SHE  lay  awake  long  that  night  but 
he  did  not  return.  And  at  six  in 
the  morning  she  was  roused  from  fitful 


slumber  by  a call  from  the  studio.  She 
got  up,  sorely  missing  Rita,  dressed 
haphazardly  and  without  the  aid  of 
her  usual  cup  of  coffee,  drove  to  the 
studio  alone  in  her  low-slung  high- 
powered  little  Jaguar,  followed  by  a 
police  car.  She  wondered  what  good 
they  were  against  a menace  already  in- 
side. 

The  day  proved  exhausting.  Nothing 
went  right  on  the  set  and  Margot  sat 
around  interminably,  waiting  for  shoot- 
ing to  begin.  Technical  hitches  caused 
work  to  be  called  at  three  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Margot  drove  into  Los  Angeles,  to  the 
Mexican  Quarter,  where  Rita’s  family 
lived.  There  she  had  to  fight  her  way 
through  the  curious  and  the  autograph 
seekers  before  she  could  get  inside  to 
convey  her  sympathies  and  discuss  with 
Rita’s  weeping  mother  and  sisters  what 
arrangements  were  to  be  made.  She 
agreed  to  take  on  Miguelita,  youngest 
of  the  Mendez  girls,  in  Rita’s  place. 
Somehow  it  seemed  altogether  fitting. 

This  concluded,  Margot  fought  her 
way  out  through  an  even  larger  crowd 
that  swarmed  over  and  around  her  car 
and  drove  alone  through  the  twilight  to 
Pasadena.  There  she  entered  the  huge 
mausoleum  of  a mansion — memorial  to 
a Midwestern  meat  packers  millions  of 
dead  hogs — and  was  informed  by  a 
smirking  turbaned  servant  that  the 
Nizam  was  not  at  home. 

“Where  is  he?”  she  asked,  feeling 
suddenly  ready  to  cry. 

“He  do  not  say.  He  go  early  las’ 
night,”  said  the  Oriental. 

“Very  well,  Raif,”  she  said.  “I’d  like 
to  know  when  he  gets  back.”  She  went 
on  into  her  room,  feeling  lonely  and 
forlorn.  Within  her  was  a growing  knot 
of  added  worry — worry  about  Ben.  It 
was  the  first  time  since  their  Riviera 
courtship  that  she  had  not  known  where 
he  was,  with  whom  and  what  doing. 

She  thought  of  having  dinner  in  her 
room,  for  she  was  very  tired.  But  mem- 
ory of  Chi-Chi  and  Rita  clung  to  her. 
The  idea  of  eating  alone,  wondering 
which  mouthful  she  took  might  be  her 
last,  terrified  her. 


108  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


After  awhile  she  stirred  herself, 
donned  black  slacks  and  jersey,  drew 
her  long  golden  hair  up  under  a black 
jockey  cap  and  hid  her  green  eyes  and 
much  of  her  face  behind  tinted  glasses. 
She  got  into  the  Jaguar  and  drove  to  an 
obscure  drive-in  where  she  ate  in  se- 
curity and  unrecognized. 

Back  in  Pasadena,  Raif  informed  her, 
still  smirking,  that  the  Nizam  had  not 
yet  returned.  Margot  nodded  curtly, 
went  back  to  her  room,  paced  the  deep- 
pile  carpet,  smoking.  She  was  no  long- 
er in  a state  of  nerves  where  she  could 
sit  and  wait. 

Ibn  ul  Melik,  the  vizier,  would  know 
where  Ben  was.  Much  as  she  hated  to 
approach  the  vizier  on  anything,  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  have  to  consult 
him  now.  She  had  to  know  where  Ben 
was,  what  he  was  doing,  when  she  could 
expect  to  see  him  again. 

She  moved  swiftly  through  the  de- 
serted corridors  of  the  immense  man- 
sion to  Ibn  ul  Melik’s  suite.  On  the 
threshold  she  paused,  hearing  voices — 
Ibn’s  and  that  of  another  man.  For  one 
wild  moment  she  thought  it  was  Ben. 
But  there  was  a trace  of  alien  accent 
under  the  suave  British  tones  of  this 
second  voice. 

She  slipped  quietly  into  the  foyer  of 
the  suite,  peered  from  the  shelter  of 
chartreuse  damask  drapes  into  the 
drawing  room,  whence  the  voices  were 
sounding.  For  some  unexplained  reason 
she  had  no  desire  to  reveal  herself  un- 
til she  learned  what  was  up. 

It  seemed  at  first  glance  that  Ibn  was 
standing  alone,  talking  to  himself  in 
two  voices.  The  vizier  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her,  facing  an  open  desk- 
secretary of  Louis  Quinze  design.  But 
somehow,  from  his  stillness  when  the 
strange  voice  sounded,  his  animation 
when  he  talked  himself,  she  realized  he 
was  not  alone. 

Puzzled,  she  shifted  position,  the  bet- 
ter to  see  around  him — and  stopped 
breathing,  paralyzed  by  what  she  saw. 

Ibn  was  speaking  respectfully  to  a 
large  transparent  globe  within  the  sec- 
retary— a globe  which  held  a dark- 
skinned  white-whiskered  head  framed 


by  a shimmering  jeweled  gold  turban. 
And  the  disembodied  head  was  talking 
back  to  him! 

Margot  clutched  the  curtains  to  keep 
from  falling — for  she  had  a sudden 
sense  of  forces  around  her,  forces  clos- 
ing in  on  her,  forces  which  were  beyond 
all  mortal  ken  as  she  knew  it.  The  im- 
possible was  happening — and  for  some 
reason  Ben  and  she  were  in  the  very 
center  of  this  vortex  of  lethal  and  in- 
explicable doings. 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Talking  Head 


The  head  was  speaking  in  measured 
tones. 

Ibn  answered:  "No,  it  is  better  that 
we  speak  in  English — the  servants  are 
not  so  likely  to  understand.  I can  only 
inform  Your  Holiness  that  abominably 
bad  luck  has  dogged  our  efforts !’’ 

The  bewhiskered  head  was  handsome 
— handsome  in  the  way  of  the  hawk  or 
the  vulture,  with  high-arched  nose,  thin 
lips  and  eyes  that  pierced  like  twin  dag- 
gers. It  was  a noble  face — proud  and 
used  to  command — a noble  face  and  ter- 
rifying withal. 

"Luck — ill  luck — is  the  result  of  in- 
complete and  faulty  planning,”  said  the 
thin  lips.  The  accents  were  low,  con- 
trolled, but  there  was  a lash  in  every 
syllable.  "You  have  bungled  miserably, 
Ibn  ul  Melik.  You  have  bungled  twice. 
Now  the  Nizam  himself  is  here  and 
presents  great  difficulties.  The  fool  is 
so  hopelessly  enamored  of  his  actress 
bride  that  he  spurns  the  beauties  of 
paradise.  She  should  long  since  have 
been  removed  without  his  knowledge. 
Now  the  problem  has  become  extreme- 
ly difficult.” 

"I  hear.  Your  Holiness,”  said  the 
vizier,  cringing  a little,  as  if  from  a 
physical  blow.  "What  should  I do  next. 
Holiness  ?” 

"You  can  do  nothing  where  you  are 
at  present,”  said  the  hawk-faced  man 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  109 


in  the  globe.  "It  would  be  best,  before 
we  take  necessary  steps  to  amend  this 
setback,  that  you  visit  us  to  become  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  the  situation  here.” 

“I  hear,  Holiness,”  said  Ibn,  bowing 
low.  Before  he  could  straighten,  the 
turbaned  head  had  vanished  like  the 
light  in  a bulb  when  the  switch  is  turned 
off.  Ibn  picked  up  the  globe,  set  it  care- 
fully back  in  a recess  of  the  secretary, 
closed  it. 

Margot  withdrew  silently  and  passed 
no  one  on  the  way  to  her  rooms.  She 
lit  a cigarette  with  a platinum  lighter- 
and-case  that  bore  her  initials  in  sap- 
phires— a wedding  gift  from  Dapper 
Dan  Wilstach. 

There  was  evidently  some  sort  of  a 
conspiracy  directed  at  Ben  which  de- 
manded her  own  removal  from  the 
scene.  Ibn  was  in  it,  but  only  as  an  agent 
— the  agent  of  the  hawklike  old  man 
with  the  white  whiskers  and  jeweled 
turban.  She  recalled  the  cruel  cast  of 
his  countenance  and  felt  a shiver  run 
up  her  spine. 

And  that  globe — Margot  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  most  modern  develop- 
ments in  television.  But  she  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it.  It  was  three- 
dimensional  and  in  perfect  color,  almost 
as  if  the  head  itself  were  contained  in 
the  crystal  transparency. 

There  was  something  else  about  it 
even  more  remarkable — as  Ibn  had 
picked  it  up  it  had  been  briefly  silhouet- 
ted against  a lamp  in  the  corner.  And 
Margot  was  willing  to  swear  upon  a 
stack  of  Bibles,  Talmuds  or  Korans  that 
not  a wire  or  any  other  visible  connec- 
tion extended  from  its  slim  supporting 
base. 

Something  old  and  cunning  and  very 
deadly  had  claimed  Chi-Chi  and  Rita, 
now  held  her  husband.  Something  that 
defied  both  reason  and  imagination.  She 
eyed  the  telephone  on  the  table  by  the 
chaise  longue  and  thought  of  callisg 
Dapper  Dan  or  the  Pasadena  police. 

She  could  raise  a first-class  row,  all 
right,  but  would  this  bring  Ben  back 
to  her  from  wherever  he  had  gone? 
Would  it  be  any  insurance  that  she 
would  not  herself  die  unexpectedly  and 


in  anguish  from  some  horrible  poison? 

She  could  not  explain  the  talking 
globe  with  its  disembodied  head.  She 
did  not  even  know  whence  the  voice 
and  head  came.  If  Rita  were  only  with 
her — Rita  with  her  shrewd  under-class 
instinct  for  practicality,  her  solid  good 
sense,  her  devotion.  But  Rita  was  gone 
— already  claimed  as  victim  by  what- 
ever it  was  that  was  seeking  the  ruin 
of  her  marriage  and  her  own  death. 
She  lit  another  cigarette  and  her 
green  eyes  narrowed  as  she  slipped  the 
platinum-and-sapphire  case-and-lighter 
back  into  a pocket  of  her  slacks.  Ibn  had 
said  that  he  was  going  to  wherever  Ben 
was  being  held  within  the  hour.  Margot 
ceased  her  pacing  as  she  considered  how 
she  could  follow  him. 

Moments  later  she  left  the  house. 

Her  low-slung  Jaguar  was  still  in 
the  driveway  and  she  backed  it  into  the 
garage.  Through  its  windshield  she 
could  see  the  lights  in  the  vizier’s  rooms 
at  the  near  end  of  the  house. 

His  shadow  appeared,  first  at  one 
window,  then  flicking  past  another.  She 
wondered  what  a vizier  could  do  even 
for  a prince  in  such  a small  household. 
The  title,  after  all,  was  that  of  an  Ori- 
ental Prime  Minister.  But  Ibn  seemed 
more  like  a glorified  servant  or  male 
governess. 

She  distrusted  him  utterly. 

The  lights  in  his  rooms  went  out  but 
he  did  not  appear  at  the  front  door.  She 
heard  another  door  open  and  shut,  the 
noise  not  loud  but  audible  on  the  clear 
night  air.  She  strained  her  eyes,  afraid 
of  losing  him  and,  through  him,  all 
trace  of  her  husband. 

He  appeared,  a silent  form,  moving 
rapidly  through  the  gardens  behind  the 
house.  Margot  slipped  out  of  the  car, 
plucking  a heavy  niblick  from  the  golf 
bag — the  Nizam’s — that  lay  across  the 
back  of  the  seat. 

She  blessed  the  honesty  of  the  citi- 
zens of  the  Mexican  Quarter — for  had 
they  not  been  honest,  surely  golf  bag 
and  clubs  alike  would  have  been  stolen 
while  she  left  the  car  parked  in  front 
of  Rita’s  home.  She  would  not  have 


110  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


even  this  protection  as  she  slipped  out 
of  the  car  and  moved  to  follow  the  vizier, 
using  the  shrubs  and  hedges  for  cover. 

As  they  progressed  through  the  in- 
tricacies of  the  garden  Margot  began  to 
sense  Ibn’s  destination — a rectangular 
concrete  structure,  well  covered  with 
ivy,  at  the  rear  of  the  grounds.  She  had 
been  informed  by  the  estate  agent  that 
it  was  used  to  store  garden  implements 
and  certain  of  the  more  perishable  gar- 
den plantings  during  the  winter  sea- 
son. 

It  didn’t  make  sense — but  she  fol- 
lowed resolutely,  the  niblick  held  tight- 
ly in  her  slim  but  strong  right  hand. 
He  disappeared  around  a corner  of  the 
structure  and  she  froze  as,  following 
him,  her  moccasined  foot  scraped 
gravel.  But  apparently  she  had  not 
been  heard  because,  by  the  sounds  that 
came  to  her,  Ibn  was  unlocking  the 
door  and  opening  it. 

She  waited  until  she  heard  it  shut, 
then  peeked.  No  one  was  in  sight,  so 
she  catfooted  it  to  the  door,  found  the 
padlock  hanging  loose  in  the  heavy  iron 
staple  and  opened  it.  She  slipped  inside 
just  as,  to  her  horror,  Ibn  turned  on 
the  lights. 

But  they  were  dim  and  he  never  even 
looked  back.  The  vizier  moved  away 
from  her  toward  a strange  thing  which 
filled  up  about  a quarter  of  the  other- 
wise empty  interior  of  the  gardener’s 
building.  'The  famed  perfection  of  the 
Holmes  mouth  went  slack  as  she  stared 
at  it. 

It  resembled  somewhat  a miniature 
metal  navy  blimp.  It  was  egg-shaped 
and  its  finish  was  dull  and  gleamed 
scarcely  at  all  in  the  dim  light.  At  its 
tallest  it  rose  perhaps  twelve  feet  from 
the  concrete  floor,  was  half  again  as 
long.  It  looked  something  like,  she 
thought  with  sudden  panic,  a stream- 
lined trailer. 

But  from  its  nose,  diagonally  like  the 
antennae  of  some  gigantic  insect, 
sprouted  a pair  of  strange  helical  arms. 
Theii’  eccentric  spirals  reminded  Mar- 
got vaguely  of  sprung  bed  springs,  less 
vaguely  of  the  odd  geometric  solids  she 
had  once  viewed  at  an  exhibition  of 


modern  abstract  sculpture  in  Holly- 
wood. They  glowed  with  a glassy  bright- 
ness which  gave  off  no  suggestion  of 
heat. 

At  first  she  thought  there  could  be 
no  opening  in  the  surface  of  this  eerie 
metal  egg.  Then  Ibn  touched  its  side  in 
various  places  and  the  metal  itself 
seemed  to  grow  fluid  and  recede  from 
what  became  miraculously  a circular 
opening  or  doorway.  Through  it  a 
brightly-lit  and  shining  interior  could 
be  glimpsed. 

Ibn,  Margot  saw,  was  going  to  enter 
the  huge  egg.  And  suddenly  she  sensed 
that  the  time  for  action  had  come — 
that  it  was  then  or — probably — never. 
Without  conscious  volition  she  moved 
swiftly  and  silently  across  the  concrete 
floor,  determined  to  prevent  him  from 
entering.  She  held  the  niblick  with  both 
hands. 

She  must  have  made  some  slight 
sound  as  she  glided  up  behind  his  stoop- 
ing form  with  the  heavy  golf  club  up- 
raised. Without  warning  the  vizier 
straightened  and  pivoted.  His  face  froze 
in  alarm  as  he  saw  her  and  he  raised 
his  arms  to  ward  off  her  blow. 

SHE  struck  with  all  the  strength  she 
could  muster,  felt  the  head  of  the 
steel-shafted  club  crash  through  the 
barrier  of  his  arms  and  bite  into  his 
skull.  She  felt  no  pity — rather  a savage 
sense  of  exaltation  at  having  at  last 
something  to  strike  out  at,  something 
to  hit.  Ibn  uttered  an  odd  little  gasp  and 
slithered  to  the  concrete,  blood  spurting 
from  a cut  in  his  scalp. 

She  turned  her  attention  to  the  huge 
egg,  peered  inside.  It  resembled  an  opu- 
lent, windowless,  air-conditioned  little 
room.  Curious,  she  scrambled  into  it. 
A sound  from  the  garage  made  her 
tense,  until  she  realized  it  was  Ibn,  snor- 
ing as  he  lay  outside. 

Then,  without  warning,  all  sound 
from  without  was  cut  off.  Alarmed, 
Margot  pivoted — and  the  strange  self- 
forming circle  of  the  enti^r  port  was 
now  an  unbroken  expanse  of  gleaming 
wall.  She  was  trapped  inside  this 
strange  thing. 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  lU 


Suddenly  everything  around  her 
seemed  to  whirl,  to  dissolve.  The  gleam- 
ing walls  ran  like  water  and  their  bril- 
liance grew  unbearable.  She  closed  her 
eyes  to  shut  it  out,  felt  like  a twig 
picked  up  by  the  caprice  of  a whirl- 
wind. She  blacked  out. 

She  recovered  consciousness  uncount- 
ed minutes  later — or  hours  or  days. 
She  couldn’t  tell.  There  was  no  definite 
sense  of  motion — but  like  the  strange 
sharp  tonality  of  a city  street  after  a 
band  has  passed,  there  was  a definite 
sense  of  something  happening  some- 
where. Looking  around  her,  feeling 
scared  and  shaken  to  the  nmrrow,  Mar- 
got discovered  she  had  dropped  the  nib- 
lick outside  on  the  garage  floor. 

She  looked  around  her,  saw  that  her 
surroundings  had  been  planned  not  for 
mere  comfort  but  for  luxury.  The  rear 
portion  of  the  chamber — which  made 
up  the  forepart  of  the  ovoid,  ended 
sharply  at  a partition  nine  feet  from 
the  concave  curve  of  the  nose — was  cov- 
ered with  a silken  mattress  as  thick  and 
soft  as  a down  cushion. 

“Designed  for  a bunch  of  old-fash- 
ioned Turks,”  she  said  and  was  startled 
to  hear  herself  talking  aloud. 

She  looked  up  to  stare  at  a replica 
of  the  globe  in  which  she  had  seen  the 
head  of  the  bewhiskered  old  man  earlier 
that  evening  in  Ibn’s  rooms.  It  appeared 
to  be  attached  to  the  curve  of  the  ceil- 
ing near  the  nose. 

For  some  time  she  stared  at  it,  won- 
dering if  another  head  would  appear 
in  it  and  talk  to  her.  She  tried  to  tell 
herself  that  this  whole  business  was 
some  sort  of  nightmare  from  which  she 
would  in  time  awake,  to  find  Ben  sleep- 
ing by  her  side.  But  the  minutes  ticked 
by  on  her  wristwatch  and  she  did  not 
awake. 

All  at  once  she  felt — ^Uiough  the  sen- 
sation was  not  describable  in  any  terms 
she  knew — ^that  the  motion  which  was 
not  motion  had  ceased,  Margot  felt 
again  the  swivel  of  unknown  forces  that 
claimed  her  consciousness. 

When  she  came  out  of  it  she  was 
lying  on  the  cushioned  floor.  Her  eyes 
went  to  the  wall,  where  the  door  had 


appeared  and  vanished  so  strangely. 
All  at  once  it  began  to  draw  back  oh 
itself  and  the  opening  reappeared.  It 
grew  wider — wider — and  then  a head 
appeared  framed  in  its  expanding  cir- 
cle. It  was  a dark-skinned,  white-whis- 
kered countenance  which  supported  a 
jeweled  turban. 


CHAPTER  III 
Prisoner  of  Dimensions 


IT  was  the  man  whose  dis^bodied 
head  she  had  seen  in  the  strange 
globe  in  Ibn’s  drawing  room  earlier.  He 
was  tall  and  lean,  surprisingly  menac- 
ing in  his  gold-embroidered  white  satin 
Russian  peasant’s  blouse  and  loose  ma- 
roon breeches  tucked  into  low  soft  leath- 
er boots  that,  like  the  shirt,  were  em- 
broidered elaborately  in  gold. 

“Welcome.  Highness,”  he  said,  ex- 
tending a helping  hand  as  Margot 
climbed  out  of  the  odd  vehicle  which 
had  brought  her — where?  She  looked 
around  her,  saw  that  she  was  in  some 
vast  and  lofty  hall  of  Oriental  design, 
with  low-pointed  arches,  mosaic  floor 
and  ceiling  and  magnificent  wall  hang- 
ings of  satin. 

“I  want  my  husband,”  she  said 
brusquely.  “You  have  him.” 

“We  shall  be  glad  to  take  you  to 
him,”  said  the  man  with  the  gold  tur- 
ban. He  made  a signal  to  the  others  who 
stood  behind  him — a roly-poly  little 
man  with  unexpectedly  sharp  black  eyes 
who  wore  a silver  turban  and  a dark 
blue  shirt  embroidered  with  stars  and 
crescents  and  a pair  of  what  were  evi- 
dently servants,  strikingly  clad  in  black- 
and-white  robes  and  turbans. 

“Just  a moment,”  said  Margot  sharp- 
ly, “I  don’t  know  who  you  are  or  where 
you’re  taking  me.  But  if  you  don’t  get 
both  my  husband  and  myself  back  to 
Pasadena  muy  pronto  you’ll  have  the 
G-Men  after  you.  Kidnaping  is  a Fed- 
eral oflfense — and  a capital  one.” 

“G-Men — ah,  yes,  the  American  In- 


112  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


vestigation  Bureau,”  said  the  gold  tur- 
ban with  a smile  that  cut  like  a scimitar. 
"I  am  very  much  afraid,  Highness,  that 
their  jurisdiction  does  not  extend  here. 
Now,  do  you  really  wish  to  see  the  Ni- 
zam?” 

"You  know  I do,”  snapped  Margot, 
trying  to  avoid  showing  the  fact  that 
she  was  chilled  with  terror.  Somehow 
she  knew  that  the  curved  swords  worn 
by  the  black-and-white  servants  had 
razor  edges.  It  was  not  a movie  set.  It 
was  real. 

So  deep  was  her  panic  that  she  was 
only  half  aware  of  the  spacious  and 
lofty  luxury  of  the  great  rooms  through 
which  they  passed.  They  came  at  last 
to  a chamber  hung  with  heavy  white 
satin.  Margot’s  escorts  paused  on  the 
threshold  and  she  alone  stepped  inside. 
Ben  lay  there,  on  a white  satin  couch, 
still  and  waxen  white.  His  skin  was 
cool  to  her  touch. 

"What  have  you  done  to  him?”  she 
said,  her  voice  low  and  throbbing  with 
anger. 

"I  regret  Your  Highness’  perturba- 
tion,” said  the  gold  turban  with  an  ur- 
banity which  ill  suited  the  glint  in  his 
hawk  eyes.  "However,  the  Nizam’s  con- 
dition is  of  his  own  making.  He  has  at- 
tained a state  of  self  hypnosis  which 
amounts  to  a trance.  We  have  been  un- 
able to  revive  him.” 

"I  don’t  believe  you,”  said  Margot. 
She  bent  over  Ben,  saw  the  almost  un- 
noticeable  rise  and  fall  of  his  chest  with 
relief.  At  least  Ben  was  alive.  Her  prob- 
lem now  was  to  get  both  of  them  out 
of  this  place.  She  swung  back  to  her 
captors. 

"Okay,”  she  said,  tapping  a cigarette 
on  the  back  of  her  case,  "now  talk. 
What  is  this  business  all  about  any- 
way?” 

“May  I introduce  myself?”  said  the 
gold-and-jeweled  turban.  "I  have  the 
honor  to  be  Mohammed  Rokn  the  'Thir- 
ty-first, Grand  Prior  of  New  Alamut. 
This” — he  indicated  the  roly  poly  silver 
turban — "is  Yezed  ud  Karmath,  As- 
tronomer of  the  Molahid  Order.  Wel- 
come to  New  Alamut,  Margot  Holmes.” 

“Listen,  my  fine  Oriental  friend,” 


said  Margot,  green  eyes  narrowing.  "If 
I’m  not  returned  in  a hurry — loith  Ben 
— it  won’t  matter  what  you  are  or 
where.  There  has  been  too  much  pub- 
licity. You  will  find  there  is  no  place  in 
the  world  where  you  can  hide.” 

"Highness,”  said  the  astronomer 
named  Yezed,  "you  still  do  not  under- 
stand. You  are  no  longer  on  the  world 
as  you  know  it.” 

"Perhaps,”  said  Mohammed  with  his 
scimitar  smile,  "we  can  retire  to  the 
next  room  for  talk.”  He  smiled  at  Mar- 
got’s hesitancy,  added,  “You  will  be 
able  to  watch  your  husband  through  the 
doorway  every  second  if  you  so  desire 
— though  I fear  he  was  withdrawn  too 
deeply  within  himself  to  be  reached  by 
any  of  us.” 

Margot  let  them  lead  her  through 
a doorway  arched  like  a gate  of 
the  Taj  Mahal  into  another  luxurious 
compartment.  New  Alamut,  Mohammed 
Rokn — the  names  rang  alarm  bells  in 
Margot’s  photographic  memory.  For 
the  first  time  the  sect  which  gave  its 
worship  to  her  husband  began  to  take 
on  meaning.  Molahids — the  lost  ones — 
but  it  meant  far  more  than  that. 

"New  Alamut,”  she  mused  aloud. 
"The  old  Alamut  was  destroyed  by  Hul- 
agu,  field  marshal  of  Temudjin,  or  Jing- 
his  Khan,  in  the  year  twelve  fifty-six 
by  Christian  reckoning.  But  the  Aga 
Khan,  Rita  Hayworth’s  father-in-law, 
is  the  Assassin  line,  not  Ben.” 

"I  had  no  idea  the  Nizam  Hassan — 
whom  you  call  Ben — had  married  so 
learned  a bride,”  said  Mohammed,  look- 
ing mildly  surprised.  "Unfortunately, 
Highness,  your  learning  does  not  go  far 
enough. 

'"The  Aga  Khan  is  at  best  a collateral 
descendant  of  Rokn  ud  din,  last  of  the 
Grand  Priors  in  your  recorded  history,” 
he  went  on  serenely.  "I  on  the  contrary 
am  his  direct  descendent.  For  Rokn  ud 
Din,  my  ancestor,  did  not  perish  at  the 
hand  of  the  Mongols.  Thanks  to  the 
saintly  wisdom  of  Nassir  ud  din,  his 
great  astronomer,  he  was  able  to  travd 
with  some  of  his  court  where  the  Mon- 
gols could  never  find  him.” 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  lU 


“No  one  got  away  from  the  Mongols 
in  those  days,”  said  Margot  cynically. 

“I  had  no  idea  that  the  Nizam  Has- 
san  or  his  bride  was  interested  in  Mola- 
hid  history,”  said  Mohammed  Rokn. 

“It  puts  a slightly  different  complex- 
ion on  our  problem,”  said  the  Astron- 
omer Yezed,  nodding  to  his  sovereign. 
Margot  had  no  intention  of  revealing 
the  fact  that  what  little  she  knew  of 
Mongol  and  Assassin  history  had  been 
taught  her  in  forced  feeding  by  her 
father,  and  that  her  memory  stubborn- 
ly refused  to  loosen  its  grip  on  any 
written  word  it  absorbed. 

“How  does  it  change  things?”  she 
asked  sharply. 

Again  the  two  turbaned  men  ex- 
changed significant  glances.  Then  the 
so-called  Grand  Prior  turned  to  her, 
smiling.  “It  may  well  make  things 
easier,”  he  said.  “Your  surprising  ac- 
quaintance with  our  background  sug- 
gests it  might  be  wiser  to  make  of  you 
an  ally  rather  than  an  enemy.  It  was 
fear  of  your — alien  influence  over  the 
Nizam  that  caused  us  to — ^take  steps 
against  you.” 

“Try  me,”  she  said  and  neither  of 
them  appeared  to  sense  the  real  de- 
fiance of  her  words. 

The  Grand  Prior  began  to  tell  his 
story  in  his  mellifluous  deep  voice. 
“Contrary  to  the  history  you  have  read, 
my  dear,  the  Assassins  or  Molahids 
were  not  all  hashish  and  murder,”  he 
said.  “The  lower  degrees  of  the  Order 
were  made  up  of  devout  Islamites,  who 
tilled  the  soil  and  lived  according  to  the 
Prophet. 

“In  the  sixth  degree,  when  the  Is- 
maelite  doctrines  were  fully  understood, 
the  study  of  Aristotle,  Pythagoras  and 
Plato  was  and  is  practiced.  Blind  belief 
in  tradition  was  exorcized.  The  seventh 
and  eighth  degrees  taught  assimilation 
of  this  principle  with  Islamic  tenets  and 
prepared  the  disciple  for  the  ninth  and 
final  degree.” 

“Which  states  in  substance,”  said 
Margot,  closing  her  eyes  briefly  to  vis- 
ualize a page  from  Jeremiah  Curtin, 
“that  ‘All  that  is  said  of  creation  and 
of  a beginning  describes  in  a simile  the 


origin  and  changes  of  matter.  An  apos- 
tle reveals  to  mankind  that  which 
heaven  has  revealed  to  him.  For  the 
sake  of  justice  and  order  he  adapts  his 
religion  to  the  needs  of  the  race.  The 
philosopher  is  free,  is  bound  to  noth- 
ing. Knowledge  for  him  is  sufficient, 
since  it  contains  the  truth,  that  toward 
which  he  is  striving.’  ” 

“Amazing!”  murmured  Yezed. 

“Since  you  seem  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  background  of  our  story,  I 
shall  proceed,”  said  the  Grand  Prior 
pontifically.  “My  direct  ancestor,  Rokn 
ud  din  was  not  destroyed  by  the  Grand 
Khan — he  sent  a willing  substitute  in 
his  place. 

“Historians  on  Earth  have  rated  him 
a fool — but  if  he  seemed  to  disregard 
the  needs  of  his  kingdom  it  was  because 
his  advisors  foresaw  its  inevitable  ruin 
and  his  concern  lay  in  perpetuating  it 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  Mongols. 

“Nassir  du  din,  his  astronomer,  was 
one  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  time.  It 
was  he  who  mastered  the  Hindu  gift 
of  nirvana — even  unto  the  teleporta- 
tion beyond  the  usual  realms  of  finite 
time  and  space.  It  was  thus  that  he  pen- 
etrated the  future  and  was  able  to  dis- 
cover and  master  the  time  capsule  and 
communicator  which  enabled  you  and 
the  Nizam  to  reach  New  Alamut.” 

“Where  is  New  Alamut?”  Margot 
asked  sharply.  If  she  could  only  learn 
where  they  were  she  might  somehow 
find  a way  back. 

“It  is  not  exactly  anywhere.  High- 
ness,” said  Mohammed.  “For  Nassir  ud 
din  did  more  than  transport  himself 
through  time — he  also  crossed  dimen- 
sions. Which  is  not  extraordinary  for 
the  two  are  really  one — and  he  who 
masters  the  one,  owns  the  other. 

“Actually  we  don’t  know  exactly 
where  we  are  in  finite  terms — not  even 
Yezed  can  compute  it.  For  beyond  the 
filter  screen  of  our  windows  lies  the 
everlasting  black  mist.  Without  the 
traveler  that  brought  you  and  the  globe 
communicators  we  would  be  lost  for- 
ever in  the  criss-cross  trails  of  other 
times  and  dimensions — on  a world 
which  none  has  ever  seen.  We  remain 


114  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


fixed  in  a stasia  that  makes  contact 
with  your  world  possible  only  through 
the  instruments  from  the  far  future 
which  Nassir  ud  din  procured  to  save 
his  master  from  Hulagu  Khan.” 

“Really  out  of  this  world,”  muttered 
Margotcynically. 

Mohammed  bowed.  “Naturally, 
our  isolation  created  problems. 
We  have  no  means  of  support  save  the 
loyalty  of  those  who  serve  us  on  Earth 
— in  the  hope  of  being  brought  to  the 
paradise  of  New  Alamut.  It  is  the  job  of 
the  Nizam  of  the  Molahid  sect  to  see 
that  his  subjects  labor  to  provide  us 
with  whatever  we  require  in  the  way 
of  food,  drink,  clothing,  machinery — all 
that  goes  to  make  life  bearable.” 

“I  see,”  said  Margot,  looking  around 
her  at  the  evident  prosperity  of  this 
sweet  racket.  “But  how  does  my  hus- 
band fit  into  it?” 

“It  has  not  been  our  custom  to  induct 
the  Earthly  Nizam  before  he  comes  of 
age,”  said  Mohammed.  “Of  recent  years 
the  Vizier  Ibn  ul  Melik  has  been  our 
agent — or  regent.  Until  recently  we 
welcomed  the  Nizam’s  marriage  to  you. 
Highness,  because  it  gave  us  an  ideal 
instrument  to  transfer  our  connections 
with  Earth  from  a looted  and  dying  Eu- 
rope and  Asia  to  an  opulent  America. 

“However,  your  husband  has  not 
proved  tractable.  He  has  thus  far  res- 
olutely refused  to  cooperate,  except  un- 
der certain  compulsions  which  we  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  make  permanent. 
We  summoned  him  here  for  further 
indoctrination,  afraid  that  his  entire- 
ly justified  devotion  to  you,  my  dear, 
was  the  cause  of  his  intransigence.  He 
has  found  refuge  from  our  coercion  in  a 
trance.  However,  we  are  more  than  glad 
to  welcome  you  here.  Perhaps  you,  be- 
ing more  worldly,  will  prove  more 
amenable.” 

Margot  stood  up,  slim,  vibrant  and 
defiant.  “You  mean,  you  want  Ben  to 
use  my  influence  to  milk  every  sucker  he 
can  find?” 

“You  express  yourself  crudely,  my 
dear.” 

“It’s  not  as  crude  as  what  I’m  think- 


ing,” snapped  Margot.  “When  I get 
back  I’m  going  to  see  you  prosecuted 
for  all  the  law  will  stand.” 

“Perhaps,  Your  Highness  would  open 
that  grille,”  said  Yezed,  nodding  toward 
a beautifully  carved  ivory  screen  set  in 
a far  wall. 

Margot  strode  to  the  grille,  opened 
it.  Behind  it  lay  a window,  cut  through 
walls  of  stone  a good  six  feet  in  thick- 
ness. No  glass  shielded  the  aperture — 
and  yet,  held  by  some  invisible  barrier 
lay  thick  black  fog,  the  thickest  and 
blackest  she  had  ever  seen.  It  looked 
as  if  it  could  be  cut  like  a pie. 

Margot  shivered  and  closed  the 
grille  quickly.  Gathering  herself  she 
turned — and  shrank  back  against  the 
grille.  Mohammed  and  Yezed  had  van- 
ished and  a quartet  of  fierce-visaged 
Moslems  barred  her  further  passage 
into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 
Revolt  in  the  Harem 


Apprehensively  Margot  sat  on 

a brocaded  silk  cushion  and  toyed 
with  the  food  that  rested  in  gold  plates 
on  a low-legged  ebony  table  inlaid  with 
mother-of-pearl.  Stubbornly  she  still 
wore  dark  slacks  and  jersey  and  mocca- 
sins— for  although  she  was  confined  in 
a harem  she  had  no  intention  of  wearing 
the  diaphanous  balloon  trousers  and 
brief  jackets  of  the  other  women  who 
graced  the  immense  suite  of  apartments 
in  the  castle. 

She  studied  the  women  as  they  ate — 
sumptuously  of  beluga  caviar,  of  rich 
pat6  de  fois  gras,  of  delicate  fowl  and 
asparagus  Hollandaise,  of  strawberries 
in  kirsch  and  vin  ros4e.  No  wonder,  she 
thought,  that  most  of  them  were  dis- 
gustingly fat  by  Hollywood  standards. 

It  was  a good  sixty  hours  since  Mar- 
got had  been  forcibly  confined  apart 
from  the  Nizam  and,  were  it  not  for  the 
watch  on  her  wrist,  she  would  already 
have  lost  track  of  time  in  this  eerie 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  115 


world  so  closely  bounded  by  eternal 
mists.  She  toyed  with  her  food,  unable 
to  find  appetite. 

"You  should  eat,”  said  one  of  the 
women,  strolling  over  to  Margot  and 
eyeing  the  barely  touched  food  on  her 
little  table,  “Mohammed — His  Holiness 
— does  not  like  bony  companions.” 

"The  more  reason  for  dieting,”  said 
Margot,  in  French  like  the  other  girl, 
a youthful  if  full-blown  creature  whose 
fair  skin  and  deep  mahogany  hair  made 
her  almost  as  much  a standout  among 
the  brunette  odalisques  as  Margot  her- 
self. 

The  girl  looked  shocked.  “You  should 
not  talk  that  way,”  she  said.  "It  is  your 
duty  to  serve  His  Holiness.  Else  why 
are  you  here?  It  is  our  joy  and  our 
greatest  honor.” 

“What’s  your  name?”  Margot  asked 
her.  She  was  growing  more  than  a lit- 
tle tired  of  the  local  propaganda. 

"Farisa  ud  din  Kaidana,”  said  the 
girl,  sinking  to  a cushion  beside  her. 
Margot  offered  her  one  of  her  dwindling 
stock  of  cigarettes,  which  was  accepted 
a trifle  fearfully. 

"Try  it,”  said  Margot.  "It  looks  a lot 
better  than  those  ghastly  water  pipes 
yon  gals  smoke.  I’m  here  against  my 
will.  My  husband  is  the  Nizam  Hassan 
ben  Sabah  and  otherwise  my  duties 
belong  to  Dapper  Dan  Wilstach  of  Col- 
ossal Picti/res  in  Hollywood.” 

"Of  course — you  are  Margot  Holmes. 
I’ve  seen  your  movies  in  the  grand  sa- 
lon,” said  the  girl.  She  sighed.  "It  is 
such  magic — but  isn’t  life  in  Hollywood 
fearfully  dangerous?  Especially  for  a 
young  woman  who  is  not  married?” 

"You  may  have  something  there,” 
said  Margot  thoughtfully.  She  studied 
Farisa  ud  din  Kaidana,  the  germ  of  an 
idea  coming  into  her  not  untalented 
blond  head.  The  girl  had  near-perfect 
features,  moved  gracefully.  If  she  had 
a good  masseuse  knock  off  twenty-five 
pounds  she  ought  to  show  well  in  front 
of  the  cameras. 

"But  in  Hollywood  I am  a free  wom- 
an,” she  said.  “I  can  earn  a half  mil- 
lion dollars  a year  by  making  only  two 
pictures — and  that’s  a lot  of  dinars  even 


when  the  government  has  taken  its  cut. 
I can  marry  or  divorce  whomever  I 
wish.  I can  go  wherever  I please  when- 
ever I please  and  no  one  gives  me  per- 
mission— or  refuses  it.” 

"And  the  young  men  I have  seen  in 
some  of  the  pictures,”  sighed  Farisa, 
"are  they  really  so  fair  and  strong?  Do 
you  think  I would  have  a chance  in 
Hollywood  ?” 

"I  don’t  know  that  'fair’  is  exactly 
the  word  to  use  on  that  gang  of  wolves,” 
said  Margot.  She  studied  the  girl  again. 
“But  I think  you’d  have  a chance,  if  I 
were  to  sponsor  you.” 

Matrgot’s  mind  was  hitting  on  all  cyl- 
inders. Although  she  could  converse 
with  few  of  the  harem  women — most  of 
them  spoke  only  some  sort  of  archaic 
Persian — she  had  not  failed  to  gather 
that  the  Grand  Prior’s  women’s  quar- 
ters were  a hotbed  of  intrigue. 

"But  if  I were  to  try  to  escape  I 
should  only  be  cast  out  to  the  mists,” 
said  Farisa,  her  huge  brown  eyes  aglow 
with  horror.  "No  one  has  ever  come 
back.”  She  shivered  and,  after  a mo- 
ment of  silence,  got  up  and  walked  away 
across  the  big  room. 

Currently,  Margot  supposed,  Farisa 
was  the  harem  favorite.  At  least  she 
had  been  summoned  by  the  suspicious- 
ly fat  guards  who  patrolled  the  corri- 
dors beyond  the  satin  and  damask  hung 
walls  more  than  any  other  girl  since 
Margot’s  incarceration. 

That  such  favoritism  had  been  the 
source  of  displeasure  to  most  of 
the  rest  of  the  odalisques  had  not  es- 
caped the  girl  from  Hollywood.  Espe- 
cially had  it  disturbed  a rather  heavy 
but  attractive  brunette  whose  face, 
while  not  beautiful  even  by  harem 
standards,  expressed  both  intelligence 
and  passion.  Margot  had  reason  to  sus- 
pect that  this  girl  also  resented  her  own 
presence.  Therefore  she  was  not  exact- 
ly surprised,  half  an  hour  or  so  after 
Farisa  had  left  her,  to  find  the  black- 
eyed  brunette  moving  toward  her. 

"I  am  Tomara  ul  Babek,”  said  the 
newcomer,  sitting  down  beside  her.  "I 
am  very  anxious  to  talk  to  you.” 


116  THRn.LING  WONDER  STORIES 


“You  speak  excellent  English,"  said 
Margot  Again  she  offered  a cigarette, 
which  was  refused  with  curt  politeness. 

“I  should,”  said  Tomara.  “I  was 
reared  here  by  an  English  governess. 
His  Holiness  likes  to  maintain  his  tal- 
ents as  a linguist  through  having  us 
mistresses  of  various  tongues.” 

“Nice  work  if  he  can  get  it.”  said  Mar- 
got. Then,  eyeing  the  girl  speculatively, 
“You  hate  my  being  here,  don’t  you?” 

“I  am  not  a fool,”  said  Tomara. 
“Every  day  I am  fighting  a battle  here." 

She  paused  and  let  her  eyes  rove 
around  the  room. 

"You’re  smarter  than  Farisa,”  said 
Margot. 

“Farisa!”  the  name  was  a word  of 
contempt.  “She  is  new — that  is  all.  Her 
day  will  end  as  will  the  days  of  others 
like  her.  But  always  His  Holiness  must 
eventually  come  back  to  Tomara.” 

"And  now  you’re  afraid  of  me,”  said 
Margot.  “Well,  don’t  be.  I’ve  got  a hus- 
band and  I didn’t  come  here  of  my  own 
free  will.  My  one  desire  is  to  reclaim 
the  Nizam  and  get  back  to  Hollywood.” 

There  was  a long  silence.  ’Then  at 
last  Tomara  said,  “I  believe  you — ^but 
you  will  not  always  be  able  to  hold  out. 
His  Holiness  has  ways — and  he  can  be 
very  persuasive.” 

“He’ll  have  to  be  more  than  that,”  said 
Margot  firmly. 

“You  have  spirit  and  you  are  brave,” 
.said  Tomara.  “But  you  will  not  win.  Mo- 
hammed will  not  rest.  I have  cause  to 
know.” 

Margot  shuddered.  The  prospect  was 
unbearable.  She  still  didn’t  quite  believe 
it  was  happening.  She  regarded  the 
dark-haired  girl  morosely  through  a 
haze  of  cigarette  smoke. 

“How  much  power  have  you  got  over 
the  kids  here?”  she  asked. 

Tomara  looked  briefly  puzzled,  then 
her  face  cleared.  “Oh — ^j’ou  mean,  will 
they  listen  to  what  I say?” 

“More  than  that,  honey,”  said  Mar- 
got. “Will  they  obey  orders  and  keep 
shut  about  it?" 

“It  is  possible,”  said  Tomara  evenly. 

“Would  you  be  willing  to  put  pres- 
sure on  them  to  get  rid  of  both  me  and 


Farisa?”  said  Margot  quietly. 

“Definitely,”  said  Tomara.  “You 
have  made  some  plans?” 

“It  depends  on  you,”  said  Margot, 
“and  I don’t  want  to  wind  up  out  there 
in  the  mists.  How  about  it?” 

“His  Holiness  would  not  send  you 
outside  under  any  conditions.  Highness, 
until — well,  until  he  has  obtained  from 
you  whatever  satisfaction  he  has  in 
mind.  It  is  a point  to  remember.” 

“Then  you’ll  play  ball?”  said  Margot 
anxiously.  She  didn’t  like  trusting  her 
life  to  this  intriguing  and  bitter  woman 
but  no  other  course  had  occurred  to  her. 
And  it  was  time  to  take  action. 

“Play  ball  ?”  the  expression  was  plain- 
ly strange  to  Tomara.  “You  mean,  co- 
operate?” 

“In  a nutshell,  yes,”  said  Margot. 

“I’ll  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
help,”  she  said  fiercely. 

'Thereafter,  while  Margot  watched 
and  did  little,  events  moved  with  a 
swiftness  that  astonished  her.  As  .she 
saw  Tomara  talk  to  group  after  group 
of  the  sixty-seven  girls  and  women  who 
made  up  the  Grand  Prior’s  harem,  she 
realized  that  conditions  must  long  have 
been  ripe  for  the  sort  of  revolt  Margot 
had  in  mind. 

Only  three  of  the  girls  objected  and 
they  were  dealt  with  in  a fashion  so 
ruthless  that  Margot  felt  a little  sick. 
When  they  tried  to  take  word  of  the  re- 
volt to  the  guards  they  were  quickly 
caught  and  stripped  and  lashed  with 
metal-studded  leather  belts  that  all  but 
flayed  them.  Gagged,  they  were  not  even 
able  to  scream. 

TT7TIEN  the  guards,  roused  by  the 
» ▼ sounds  of  the  tussle,  came  in  with 
scimitars  unsheathed,  they  were 
brusquely  informed  by  Tomara  that 
some  of  the  girls  had  been  misbehaving 
and  had  been  punished.  The  guards 
seemed  to  have  little  desire  to  become 
involved  in  such  a fracas.  They  quickly 
withdrew  to  their  posts. 

“I  am  afraid,”  murmured  Farisa, 
who  was  sticking  close  to  Margot  now 
that  she  knew  the  plan.  “Suppose  we 
are  sent  outside?” 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE  117 


"You  and  I are  going  to  be  sent  to  the 
real  Earth,”  said  Margot  reassuringly. 
"Don’t  worry,  baby,  I’ll  take  care  of 
you.” 

"But  we  are  only  women,”  Farisa  pro- 
tested. 

"Never  underestimate  the  power  of  a 
woman,”  quoted  Margot.  She  calmed  the 
girl  down  by  telling  her  of  the  wonders 
of  Hollywood  and  New  York  and  Paris 
until  fear  fled  from  her  eyes. 

"Since  you  speak  French,  we’ll  bring 
you  on  as  a continental  discovery,”  she 
told  the  frightened  girl.  "Let’s  see — 
we’ll  have  to  get  you  a new  name — Fa- 
risa ud  din  Kaidana  may  sound  glamor- 
ous in  New  Alamut  but  I’m  afraid  it 
won’t  do  in  the  Hollywoods.  Let’s  see.” 

They  finally  decided  on  Dana  Faris, 
a reversal  that  could  be  French  as  well 
as  anything  else.  Meanwhile,  around 
thep,  plans  proceeded  apace.  Finally 
Tomara  joined  them. 

"If  we  pull  this  off,”  Margot  suggest- 
ed, "why  don’t  you  come  along,  too,  To- 
mara ? I have  a hunch  you’d  like  it  back 
on  Earth.” 

Tomara  shook  her  head.  "I  have  been 
considering  the  possibility,”  she  replied. 
“But  my  life,  my  job,  are  here.  And 
with  you  two  out  of  the  picture  I’ll 
have  this  show  well  in  hand.” 

"Smafl  puddle,”  said  Margot  and  To- 
mara smiled. 

“But  large  enough  for  me,”  she  said. 
"Now — once  more — what  we  will  have 
to  do  is  this.  . . .” 

Half  an  hour  later  one  of  the  plump 
guards  appeared  and  announced  that 
His  Holiness  Mohammed  Rokn,  the 
Grand  Prior,  requested  the  presence  of 
a half  dozen  of  the  girls  to  entertain  a 
small  group  he  had  assembled  in  his 
gracious  presence  for  dinner.  The  guard 
read  off  a list  of  names  and  waited. 

Nothing  happened.  The  eyes  of  all  the 
other  members  of  the  harem,  wives, 
concubines  and  slaves  alike,  turned  to 
watch  Tomara  and  Farisa,  both  of 
whose  names  were  on  the  list. 

"Well,  come  on,”  snapped  the  guard 
in  high  peevish  tones.  "His  Holiness  is 
waiting.  Do  you  want  me  to  get  a lash- 
ing?” 


"He’ll  have  to  wait  longer,”  said  To- 
mara quietly.  She  repeated  her  reply  in 
English  for  Margot’s  benefit.  The  guard 
looked  thunderstruck. 

"This  is  no  time  for  joking,”  he  said 
a bit  nervously.  "His  Holiness’  humor 
has  been  poor  for  the  last  three  days.” 
"We  are  not  joking,”  Tomara  replied. 
“Until  His  Holiness  consents  to  grant 
us  certain  privileges  he  shall  re- 
ceive no  service  from  us.” 

The  guard  turned  pale  beneath  his 
dark  skin.  He  muttered  a few  unintel- 
ligible phrases,  turned  on  his  slippered 
heel  and  stalked  out  of  the  huge  harem 
chamber. 

Moments  later  the  curtains  concealing 
the  doorway  to  the  rest  of  the  vast  pal- 
ace were  lifted.  Four  guards  entered, 
ranged  themselves  on  either  side  of  the 
entry.  A quick  step  sounded  in  the  cor- 
ridor and  Mohammed  himself  entered 
and  stopped  short. 

His  gaze  took  in  the  scene,  saw  the 
eyes  of  the  other  women  and  girls  on 
Margot,  Tomara  and  Farisa.  His  thin 
cruel  mouth  curved  in  a faint  ironical 
smile.  He  addressed  them  in  English,  ev- 
idently troubling  to  speak  only  to  Mar- 
got and  Tomara. 

"It  is  evident,”  he  said,  "that  I have 
made  a mistake  in  placing  a woman  so 
untrained  for  harem  life  as  you,  Margot 
Holmes  ben  Sabah,  in  such  surroundings 
against  your  will.” 

Margot  rose,  deliberately  tugged  at 
her  jockey  cap.  She  flicked  ashes  from 
the  end  of  her  cigarette. 

“Relax,  Your  Royal  Poobah,”  she 
said.  "The  girls  will  play  ball — but 
you’ve  got  to  get  Ben  and  Farisa  and 
me  out  of  here  or  I’m  afraid  your  love 
life  is  down  the  drain  for  keeps.” 


CHAPTER  V 
Beyond  AU  Evil 


WITH  flashing  eyes  the  Grand 
Prior  stared  at  Margot. 

"For  such  insolence,”  Mohammed 


118  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


#«ld,  speaking  in  a voice  barely  above 
a whisper,  “I  could  have  you  flayed 
alive.” 

“But  you  won’t,”  Margot  told  him 
Iwldly.  “For  if  you  harm  me  in  any  way 
vou  will  never  bend  the  Nizam  to  vour 
will.” 

“Time  changes  all  things,”  said  the 
Grand  Prior  but  it  was  evident  that  she 
had  scored.  “What  is  it  that  you  want?” 

“Free  passage  for  the  Nizam  and 
myself  back  to  California,”  she  told  him. 
“And  Farisa  goes  with  us.  I have  prom- 
ised her.” 

“So,”  said  the  Grand  Prior,  “our  par- 
adise is  not  good  enough  for  you.”  He 
paused,  lost  in  thought,  then  shot  a 
rapid  fire  question  at  Yezed,  who  stood 
two  paces  to  his  rear.  They  conversed 
"briefly  in  Persian  and  then  Mohammed 
turned  back  to  Margot. 

“Come  with  me.  Highness,”  he  said, 
using  the  title  with  mockery.  “You  shall 
have  your  wish — on  one  condition.” 

“And  what  is  that?”  the  movie  sictress 
countered  warily. 

"That  you  bring  the  Nizam  from  his 
ti’snce,”  said  the  Grand  Prior  and  there 
was  something  in  his  eyes  she  did  not 
like.  “Do  not  fear.  Highness,  if  he  has 
sufficient  love  for  you  he  will  hear  you 
call  him,  even  in  the  furthest  flights  of 
his  nirvana.” 

Margot  looked  quickly  at  Tomara, 
who  nodded  faintly.  She  knew  nothing 
of  her  husband’s  strange  condition  but 
judged  it  to  be  some  sort  of  a stalemate 
he  had  adopted  to  stymie  the  Grand 
Prior’s  plan.  Apparently  they  could  do 
nothing  with  him  until  he  emerged  from 
his  trance.  She  wondered  if  it  weren’t 
a trick. 

“You  will  use  no  deceit?”  she  in- 
quired. Mohammed  made  a deprecatory 
gesture  as  if  she  had  been  guilty  of  such 
a lapse. 

“Nay  and  we  shall  in  no  way  pursue 
you  when  you  are  safely  back  on  Earth,” 
said  Mohammed.  “You  have  the  word  of 
the  Grand  Prior,  publicly  given.  It  has 
served  for  many  centuries.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Margot.  “It  will 
have  to  do.  Come,  Farisa.”  She  still  did 
not  trust  the  Grand  Prior  and  was  men- 


tally computing  how  best  to  put  a check- 
rein  on  the  Earthly  activities  of  this  re- 
fined version  of  Murder,  Inc.,  after  their 
return. 

The  girls  followed  them,  carefully 
shepherded  by  the  fat  warders,  to  the 
white-satin  chamber  where  the  Nizam 
still  lay  in  his  trance.  The  Grand  Prior 
checked  the  procession  at  the  sill  of  the 
airy  arch  of  the  doorway  and  regarded 
Margot  directly. 

'"The  next  move  is  yours,”  he  said 
with  the  sardonic  curve  of  his  thin  lip.s 
which  Margot  had  come  to  dislike  so 
greatly. 

Margot  hesitated,  then  went  forward 
and  bant  over  the  couch  with  its  white 
satin  covers.  She  laid  a hand  on  her  hus- 
band’s neck  and  felt  a surge  of  relief 
pass  through  her  as  she  could  feel  the 
faint  pulse  beat  beneath  her  fingertips. 
She  bent  over  him  and  her  lips  touched 
his — cold  and  unresponsive  to  the  con- 
tact. 

“Ben,  darling,”  she  said.  “Ben,  it’s  I, 
Margot.  Can  you  hear  me,  darling?  Ben, 
try  to  hear  me.  I want  to  get  through.” 

Slowly  his  eyelids  fluttered,  then  more 
rapidly.  At  last  she  found  herself  star- 
ing into  them  and  felt  the  flood  of  re- 
lief. His  sensitive  mouth  smiled  at 
her  faintly  and  one  of  his  arms  came  up 
to  press  her  side.  She  bent  and  kissed 
him  again  and  this  time  there  was  no 
doubt  about  the  response. 

“The  Tenth  Degree,”  he  whispered. 
“Darling,  I’ve  won ! I never  thought  I’d 
get  back  to  see  you  again.”  He  tried  to 
sit  up  but  she  held  him  on  the  pillow 
with  a firm  but  gentle  touch. 

“We’re  still  in  New  Alamut,”  she  told 
him.  “I — I came  after  you.  But  never 
mind  that  now.  If  you’re  well  enough 
Mohammed  is  going  to  let  us  go  back  to 
Pasadena.” 

His  fingers  gripped  hers  hard  and  he 
was  not  to  be  denied  this  time  as  he 
struggled  up  to  a sitting  position.  He 
looked  pitifully  pale  and  wasted  away 
after  his  long  coma.  But  his  eyes  were 
clear  and  he  quickly  took  in  his  sur- 
roundings. 

“Look  well,  oh  Mohammed,”  he  called, 
his  voice  thin  but  clear,  to  the  Grand 


TIIE  TENTH  DEGREE  119 


Prior.  'T  warned  you  that  your  tactics 
would  not  avail  against  my  knowledge 
and  my  love.” 

"You  will  need  refreshments,  High- 
ness,” said  Mohammed.  He  clapped  his 
hands  and  servants  appeared,  carrying 
fruit  and  a bowl  of  steaming  clear  beef 
soup,  redolent  of  sherry,  on  chased  sil- 
ver trays.  When  Margot  checked  her 
husband’s  effort  to  partake  of  it,  the 
Grand  Prior  smiled  his  faint  and  evil 
smile,  came  forward  and,  with  a special 
spoon,  took  the  first  sip  himself. 

"You  see,”  he  told  Margot  reproach- 
fully. "I  am  a man  of  my  word.  When 
you  are  ready  you  three  may  proceed  to 
the  ship  and  return  to  your  home.  My 
oath  that  you  shall  not  be  disturbed 
upon  Earth  shall  be  kept  as  well.  You 
hear  me.  Highness?” 

"I  hear  but  I fail  to  understand,”  said 
the  Nizam,  frowning. 

Margot  rubbed  her  cheek  against 
his  and  was  grateful  that  the 
Grand  Prior’s  slaves  had  seen  fit  to  keep 
him  shaved  during  the  course  of  his  long 
trance.  She  felt  young  and  gay  and 
happy  as  she  had  not  since  the  death  of 
Chi-Chi.  She  smiled  at  Farisa,  who  re- 
turned a tremulous  curve  of  her  full  lips. 

"How,”  said  the  Nizam  to  the  Grand 
Prior,  "do  you  plan  to  continue  your  op- 
erations on  Earth  hereafter?” 

Mohammed  shrugged.  "We  have 
stored  well  against  this  date,”  he  said. 
"And  there  is  Ibn,  though  I fear  he  will 
scarcely  be  able  to  conduct  his  labors  in 
our  behalf  in  America  henceforth.  Per- 
haps South  America  will  prove  a better 
Earthly  base  for  us.” 

"I  warn  you,  Mohammed,”  said  Ben, 
whose  color  had  improved  with  the  tak- 
ing of  nourishment,  "that  I shall  con- 
tinue to  do  all  in  my  power  to  thwart 
you.  The  day  of  the  Assassins  is  past. 
My  father  so  taught  me  and  what  1 have 
seen  of  this  anachronistic  palace  has 
only  served  to  convince  me  that  he  was 
in  the  right.” 

"We  can  only  bow  to  your  whim,” 
said  the  Grand  Prior,  suiting  action  to 
the  word.  "Now,  if  you  are  ready,  High- 
ness . . .” 


"Come  on,  baby,  let’s  get  out  of  here,” 
said  Margot.  She  helped  him  up.  After 
a few  seconds,  Ben  was  able  to  stand 
and  walk  unaided.  They  moved  slowly 
toward  the  doorway  and  Margot  extend- 
ed a hand  to  Farisa,  who  seemed  hesi- 
tant about  following  them. 

Tomara,  her  intelligent  face  alert 
with  interest,  mouthed  a farewell  and 
thrust  a magnificent  platinum-set  star- 
sapphire  ring  into  Margot’s  hand.  In 
return  Margot  gave  her  benefactress 
the  platinum-and-sapphire  cigarette- 
case-and-lighter. 

"You  should  be  able  to  drum  up  some 
cigarettes  around  hei'e,  Tomara,”  she 
whispered.  "Good  luck  with  the  girls.” 

"It  is  you,  I fear,  who  will  need  di- 
vine guidance,”  said  the  harem  boss. 
She  looked  at  Margot  piercingly,  then  at 
Ben,  then  at  the  Grand  Prior.  She  whis- 
pered, "Good-by,”  and  then  .slipped  into 
the  rear  ranks  of  the  women  who  were 
crowded  about. 

Margot  tried  to  dismiss  her  growing 
sense  of  unease.  She  could  not  help  but 
feel  that  things  had  been  going  much  too 
easily.  The  Grand  Prior  was  simply  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  surrender  without 
some  further  effort.  She  kept  her  eyes 
open  for  treachery  at  every  step.  It  was 
a long  long  way  to  the  egg-shaped  ship. 

But  they  accomplished  the  trip  with- 
out incident.  There,  at  one  side  of  the 
great  mosaic  hall,  sat  the  vessel  with  its 
oddly  bright  helical  antennae.  'The  mys- 
terious door  opened  and  first  the  Nizam, 
then  Farisa,  then  Margot  entered.  They 
sat  on  the  cushions,  saw  the  door  shut, 
felt  the  strange  sense  of  movement  that 
was  not  movement.  Their  senses  whirled 
again.  They  were  unconscious  for  nine 
minutes  by  Margot’s  watch. 

"Is  it  going  to  take  long?”  asked  Fa- 
risa in  French  when  they  recovered. 
Margot  reassured  her  and  held  Ben  close 
to  her.  He  was  suffering  a reaction  from 
the  effort  of  walking  through  the  pal- 
ace to  the  ship  after  the  long  fast  he  had 
endured  while  in  his  trance. 

"It  was  the  only  way  I could  stop 
them,  darling,”  he  told  Margot.  "I  have 
been  working  toward  it  ever  since  I was 
a very  small  and  rather  naughty  boy. 


1*0  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


My  father,  who  hated  the  bondagre  in 
which  he,  like  all  Molahids,  is  held,  gave 
me  his  confidence  early  and  taught  me 
much — even  of  the  Tenth  Degree.” 

“You  mentioned  that  when  I waked 
you,”  said  Margot.  He  looked  into  her 
eyes  and  smiled  his  thanks  and  she  felt 
like  a maid  who  is  about  to  experience 
her  very  first  kiss. 

“Usually  it  is  held  that  there  are  but 
Nine  Degrees  in  the  Ishmaelite  faith,” 
he  told  her.  “But  there  is  one  higher 
still.  It  was  attained  by  Nassir  ud  din, 
who  plunged  through  space,  time  and 
crossed  dimensions  to  save  his  master 
and  himself  from  the  Mongols.  It  can 
be  attained  only  by  the  greatest  self  mas- 
tery. Only  by  attaining  it  could  I hope 
to  defeat  the  Grand  Prior.” 

“And  you  thought  you  had  achieved 
teleportation  ?”  said  Margot.  She  ruffled 
his  uncovered  hair.  “Darling,  isn’t  the 
whole  thing  like  a horrid  dream?  Why 
did  they  want  to  poison  me?” 

“It’s  no  dream,”  said  the  Nizam  grim- 
ly. “They  feared  that  you  had  too  much 
influence  over  me  for  the  good  of  the  Or- 
der. I refused  to  believe  they  would 
dare — after  all,  technically  if  not  in 
practise,  I outrank  the  Grand  Prior. 

“But  when  they  confronted  me  with 
the  fact  they  intended  to  eliminate  you, 
my  dear,  unless  I agreed  to  their  de- 
mands, I went  into  trance,  seeking  the 
Tenth  Degree.  I felt  that  only  through 
its  use,  if  I could  be  sufficiently  blessed 
to  attain  it,  could  I save  you.  I failed,  it 
appears,  but  you  have  saved  us  without 
its  use.” 

“Aw,”  said  Margot,  suddenly  blush- 
ing. “It  was  nothing  but  a little  common 
sense.  I told  them  to  let  us  go  or  be 
minus  one  harem.  Farisa,  here,  is  part 
of  the  deal.  She  wants  to  try  her  luck  in 
Hollywood.  I think  Dapper  Dan  will  go 
for  her.” 

“He  might,”  said  Ben.  Then  Margot, 
watching  him,  saw  his  face  suddenly 
turn  gray.  Farisa  shrieked  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  Margot  turned 
her  head  to  see  what  was  wrong.  The 
door  in  the  side  of  the  egg-shaped  ship 
had  opened  silently  and  beyond  it  was 
a barrier  of  impenetrable  black  mist — 


mist  which  was  already  welling  into  the 
egg-shaped  room  which  prisoned  them. 

“The  dirty  trickster!”  said  Margot 
numbly,  all  her  worst  presentiments 
realized.  By  misdirecting  the  machine 
the  Prior  had  cast  them  to  the  mercies 
of  the  trans-dimensional  fog  from  which 
no  one  had  ever  come  back.  Even  as  she 
looked  the  entrance  blurred  as  the  fog 
obscured  it.  Farisa  screamed  and 
screamed  again  and  Margot  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

SHE  felt  Ben’s  arm  go  around  her, 
draw  her  close.  His  lips  were  next 
to  her  left  ear.  “Forget  everything — 
blank  out,”  he  told  her  in  hasty  accents. 
“It’s  our  only  chance.”  Then  he  spoke 
rapidly  away  from  her  in  French — re- 
peating his  command  to  Farisa.  “Keep 
in  close  physical  contact  with  me,”  he 
urged. 

There  was  silence  then,  broken  only 
by  the  labored  breathing  of  the  two 
women.  The  Nizam  made  no  sound  at 
all.  Even  the  hand  which  touched  Mar- 
got’s had  again  turned  cold  as  death. 
She  lay  there,  trying  not  to  fear,  try- 
ing to  let  Ben’s  consciousness,  buried 
deep  as  it  was,  flow  through  her  own. 

Though  her  eyes  were  closed  she  could 
almost  see  the  slow  envelopment  of  the 
mist  about  them.  It  touched  her  with 
clammy  fingers  that  were  not  fingers,  it 
became  a tide  that  seemed  sentient,  that 
burned  faintly,  then  more  strongly,  as  if 
it  were  causing  her  very  flesh  to  dis- 
solve. Whatever  it  was  it  was  fearful. 

She  wanted  to  scream  but  her  lips 
would  not  open.  She  wanted  to  fling 
herself  clear  of  it,  to  get  away  some- 
how from  its  embrace,  but  she  lay  as  if 
caught  in  an  immovable  shell.  And  she 
had  the  feeling  that  her  senses  had 
ceased  to  be  her  own. 

Then,  suddenly,  something  new  flood- 
ed through  her,  a sensation  of  aware- 
ness, of  knowing  deeper  than  any  she 
had  ever  known.  The  mist  was  sentient 
— it  was  of  itself  a world  and  all  the  liv- 
ing things  upon  that  world,  in  whose 
hard  bony  core  lay  the  hidden  recesses 
of  New  Alamut,  like  a non-malignant 
cancer. 


THE  TENTH  DEGREE 


She  knew — and  she  was  not  afraid — 
and  it  was  from  Ben,  her  husband,  that 
her  knowledge  stemmed.  Knowing,  the 
mist  could  not  harm  her  for  she  was 
being  removed  from  its  grip.  There  were 
unseen,  unimagined  vistas  of  velvet 
black  sky,  of  blazing  suns  and  strange 
planets,  of  stars  in  unfamiliar  pattern. 

And  then,  at  last,  the  mist  was  gone. 
She  lay  there,  still  unable  to  move,  and 
Ben  was  leaning  over  her  as,  some  im- 
measurable time  before,  she  had  leaned 
over  him  and  sought  to  waken  him  from 
his  trance.  Slowly,  slowly,  she  opened 
her  eyes  to  meet  his. 

They  were  still  in  the  ship  and  the 
door  was  still  open — but  instead  of  the 
mist  the  familiar  outlines  of  the  gar- 
dener’s tool-and-plant  building  lay  be- 
yond. Margot  gave  a little  cry  and  em- 
braced Ben.  Beyond  him  lay  Farisa, 
still  in  a dead  faint.  He  had  brought  all 
three  of  them  through  in  safety, 

"You  did  it,  darling — the  Tenth  De- 
gree!” she  whispered.  He  nodded  and 
she  saw  the  ravages  of  his  effort  in  his 
face.  She  rallied  to  help  him  from  the 
egg-shaped  vehicle,  then  to  carry  Farisa 
from  it.  The  girl  was  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  coming  out  of  her  faint. 

Ibn  still  lay  on  the  floor  and  blood  still 
welled  from  the  cut  in  his  scalp.  Margot 
stared  at  him,  stricken  at  the  sudden 
shift  in  time,  and  even  as  she  did  Ibn 
stirred,  sat  up,  his  eyes  going  wide  in 
alarm.  He  gave  a hoarse  cry  and  sprang 
for  the  door  of  the  machine,  which  al- 
most at  once  began  to  close  behind  him. 

Strange  vibrations  rose  around  them 
and  the  ship  began  to  grow  faint.  Mar- 
got, giving  vent  to  a savage  cry,  lunged 
fw  her  niblick  and  raced  to  the  front  of 
the  ship.  There  she  swung  hard  at  the 
helical  antennae,  smashing  at  them  as  if 
they  were  snakes  which  had  threatened 


121 

someone  dear  to  her.  They  were  already 
near-to-invisible  as  the  steel  club  passed 
through  them  but  there  was  a distant 
musical  note  as  if  very  fine  crystal  had 
been  shattered  somewhere  afar  off. 

"Margot!"  cried  Ben,  horrified.  "You 
have — ” 

"It  was  the  only  way,”  she  said  and, 
all  at  once,  tears  w^re  streaming  down 
her  face.  She  hugged  Ben  close,  sobbing 
against  his  chest.  "It  was  the  only  way,” 
she  kept  repeating. 

"You’re  right,  darling,”  the  Nizam 
said  simply.  "Without  ft  they  can  never 
get  back.  They  must  stay  there — amid 
the  mists.” 

"Come,  darling,”  said  Margot,  man- 
aging a shaky  smile.  "We  both  look  like 
the  devil.” 

It  was  all  a dream — until  she  saw  the 
huge  star  sapphire  in  its  alien  setting 
on  her  third  finger.  Across  from  her, 
over  Ben’s  shoulder,  stood  an  uncertain 
Farisa,  looking  somehow  very  Holly- 
wood indeed  in  her  harem  clothes. 

"We’ve  got  a lot  to  tend  to,”  said  Mar- 
got, not  seeking  to  fathom  the  distor- 
tion of  time  that  had  enabled  her  to  live 
two  and  a half  days  in  New  Alamut 
while  mere  minutes  went  by  in  Pasa- 
dena. 

The  three  of  them  moved  slowly  out 
into  the  gardens  toward  the  house  .and 
Farisa  gave  a cry  of  amazement  at  the 
sight  of  the  dark  blue  sky.  Margot  nod- 
ded and  pointed  out  the  moon,  which  lay, 
quarter  full,  just  over  the  roof  of  the 
pink  palace  that  was  home. 

But  she  clutched  the  blood-stained 
niblick  tightly — for  in  the  house  there 
was  one  thing  more  to  destroy.  In  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  hoped  it  would  con- 
tain a gold-turbanned  head  framing  a 
dark-skinned  face  surrounded  by  white 
whiskers  when  she  shattered  it  to  bits. 


NEXT  ISSUE 

CAPTAIiV  FAMIIVE 

An  Amazing  Novelet  oj  the  Spacetvays 


By  CLEVK  CARTMllJb 


The  BONE  of 


by  WILLIAM 


YOU’LL  forget  your  own  name 
next,"  his  mother  had  told  him  a 
hundred  times  when  he  was  a kid. 

He  could  recall  the  exact  tones  of 
amused  rebuke.  He  could  see  the  faint 
smile  on  the  very  red  lips.  Which  was 


odd,  because  those  lips  had  paled  into 
ashes  twenty  years  ago.  And  now  he  had 
forgotten  his  own  name. 

'7  remember , I remember, 

The  house  where  I was  bom  . . ." 
He  could,  too.  It  stood  on  a comer.  It 


There  Is  a Missing  Link  Between  Mind  and 

122 


CONTENTION 

F.  TEMPLE 


was  a dingy  yellow  color.  There  was  a 
chop  house  next  door  but  one.  Just  down 
the  street  the  elevated  crossed  over.  It 
was  all  like  a crazy  caricature  of  Van 
Gogh’s  painting  of  his  yellow  house  at 
Arles,  with  the  color  Avashed  out  of  it. 


Yes,  he  could  remember  the  house  where 
he  was  born  and  named.  But  he  could 
not  remember  what  he  was  named. 

Suddenly  he  was  weary,  sick  of  it. 

“The  devil  with  it — what  does  it  mat- 
ter?” he  said  aloud.  There  was  no  one 


Matter,  and  Jud  Parker  Meets  It  Eye  to  Eye! 

123 


124  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


with  him.  There  hadn’t  been  for  six 
months  (was  it?)  now.  But  people  who 
live  alone  get  the  habit  of  addressing 
themselves  to  the  vacant  air. 

“A  rose  by  any  other  name  wottld 
smell  as  sweet. . . . Sweets  to  the  sweet. 
. . . Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity. . . , 
hymn  to  Adversity,  by  Thomas  Gray, 
. . , Was  it  Gray?  Am  I Thomas  Gray? 
No,  that’s  not  the  name.  . . .” 

Phrases  linked  by  association  con- 
tinued to  puli  through  his  mind  like  an 
endless  string  of  sausages.  That  was  all 
the  so-important  subconscious  mind 
really  was : a vast  repository  of  chance- 
associated  words,  phrases,  impressions, 
ideas,  where  a crazy  doodler  played. 
Once  he  had  had  control  of  them.  Now 
they  controlled  him. 

A NEEDLE  on  a dial  crept  to  a red 
mark,  hesitated  over  it.  Immedi- 
ately his  fingers  ran  spider-wise  over 
a keyboard.  The  overheated  venturas 
were  griven  rest  while  their  fellows  took 
over.  The  ship  continued  to  accelerate 
toward  the  unknown  planetoid.  This 
was  the  final  burst.  The  planetoid  lay 
ahead,  a bright  crescent  hugging  a black 
mystery  to  itself,  big  as  the  Moon  seen 
from  Earth. 

Earth!  Where  was  Earth?  It  was  one 
of  those  bright  pinholes  in  the  sable 
curtain  outside  the  window.  Oh,  the  an- 
swer was  in  his  charts,  all  right.  Only, 
to  plot  the  position  of  Earth  when  you 
were  not  sure  of  your  own  position,  or 
of  your  memory,  your  ability,  your 
sanity  . . . 

He  mustn’t  think  that.  He  was  a bit 
confused,  that  was  all.  As  for  his  abil- 
ity, he’d  moved  as  smartly  as  a gunman 
switching  those  venturas.  Automatic,  in 
fact.  Automatic  with  an  automatic.  . , . 

His  attention  wandered  again,  and 
when  it  came  back  to  the  here  and  now 
it  bumped  into  the  idea  that  he’d  been 
too  automatic.  His  fingers  had  moved  of 
themselves.  He  hadn’t  directed  them  or 
given  them  a thought.  An  automaton 
within  him  did  that.  A soulless  creature 
built  of  conditi(med  reflexes  and  shaped 
by  habit. 

So  there  was  a doodler  and  there  was 


an  automaton.  Neither  was  the  real 
“he.”  Then  who  was?  He  was  the  guy 
who  asked  all  the  questions,  such  as 
“What’s  my  name?  and  “Does  it  mat- 
ter?” 

Suddenly,  it  did  matter. 

“They  should  have  foreseen  it!”  he 
cried  to  the  outer  darkness.  “They  are 
to  blame!" 

“They”  were  his  Government.  They 
had  sent  this  hasty,  inadequate  fleet 
of  two-men  ships  to  explore,  report  on, 
and — more  important^laim  in  their 
name  as  much  of  the  asteroid  belt  as 
possible.  As  quickly  as  possible.  Before 
a certain  other  Government  beat  them  to 
it. 

It  was  the  scramble  for  America  all 
over  again.  Only  now  there  was  not  just 
one  “New  World”  but  a revolving 
shower  of  them.  The  atomic  rocket  drive 
had  arrived  before  World  Government, 
and  Earth  squirted  rockets  in  all  di- 
rections, each  carrying  as  its  vital  car- 
go a bundle  of  stake-posts  and  flags. 

There  was  an  uneasy  frontier  on  the 
Moon.  America  had  dusty  Mars,  and 
the  other  Government  floated  the  first 
raft  on  Venus.  The  moons  of  Saturn  and 
Jupiter  were  roughly  equidivided.  Each 
Government  had  lost  more  ships  than 
it  dared  tell  its  people,  aiming  for  Mer- 
cury but  providing,  unintentionally, 
burnt  offerings  to  the  Sun. 

No  one  had  returned  from  Neptune 
or  Pluto  yet. 

The  land  rush  was  at  its  height  in  the 
asteroid  belt  now.  That  region  had  been 
ignored  until  some  astronomer  had  care- 
lessly mentioned  that  in  it  were  four- 
teen bodies  containing  over  1,000,000 
square  miles  and  more  than  two  hun- 
dred bodies  containing  over  10,000 
square  miles.  It  totalled  a desirable 
acreage.  There  was  always  the  possi- 
bility that  in  it  there  was  an  acre  ankle- 
deep  in  uranium.  That  was  the  goal,  an 
El  Dorado  of  uranium. 

For  in  the  atomic  age  Earth  had  used 
the  fuel  prodigally,  and  there  wasn’t 
much  left  for  the  new  rocket  drive. 
This  was  the  last  throw  for  more.  The 
engines  of  the  seven  U.  S.  two-men  ships 
were  bread  cast  upon  the  waters.  The 


THE  BONE  OF  CONTENTION  125 


last  of  the  bread,  and  that  was  why 
plumb  center  of  the  navigation  panel 
of  each  ship  was  an  illuminated  notice 
sternly  reminding  the  pilot  that: 

YOUR  DUTY 

1.  Is  io  claim  in  your  country’s  name  as  many 
asteroids  as  possible. 

2.  Is  to  keep  going  as  long  as  your  fuel,  air 
and  food  lasts,  which  is  an  average  mini- 
mum of  8 months. 

3.  Is  to  remember  that  a premature  return 
to  Earth  (unless  a Uranium  deposit 
reaching  Scale  60  is  discovered)  will  be 
regarded  as  more  than  a wastage  of  fuel; 
it  will  be  treated  as  treason.  You  have  a 
sacred  trust.  (NOTE:  Illness  or  even 
death  of  one  of  the  crew  will  not  be  ac- 
cepted as  an  excuse  for  return.) 

4.  Is  to  waste  no  time.  Prospect  carefully, 
record  folly,  but  without  delay;  if  you  do 
net  get  there  first,  you  will  be  too  late. 

The  nameless  one  gazed  at  his  notice 
now,  and  the  weary,  idiotic  thoughts 
trailed  through  his  head. 

“.  . . you  will  be  too  late.  , . . Never 
too  Late  to  Mend,  by  Charles  Reade.  (Is 
that  my  name?  No.)  Must  re-read  Reade. 
In  re  Reade  . . . 'Reading  maketh  a full 
man.’  . . . Full  many  a flower  is  bam 
to  blush  unseen  . . . unseen  . . . fore- 
seen ...” 

"They  should  have  foreseen  it,”  he 
said  again,  with  no  vehemence  this  time. 

HIS  fingers  moved.  He  watched  them 
detachedly.  They  turned  the  70- 
ton  ship  tail-first  to  the  planetoid  and 
negotiated  its  descent. 

It  landed  with  two  hardly  percepti- 
ble bounces. 

He  turned  to  George  and  said: 
"Neat!” 

Only  George  wasn’t  there.  Their 
landing  on  the  third  planetoid  hadn’t 
been  so  neat.  George  had  fractured  his 
skull  on  a steel  wall  bracket  and  lay 
preserved  forever  in  an  airless  rocky 
defile. 

It  was  nice  to  recall  his  name  had 
been  George,  though.  He  envied  George. 

His  fingers  seized  a stylo  and  wrote 
busily:  “Planetoid  i-1.  Point  . . .”  And 
stopped.  He  cogitated  and  left  a query 
mark  there. 

“Landed  15.S5  Western  Pacific  Time.” 
Again  a pause.  No,  he  didn’t  know 
what  day  it  was.  Or  month.  Or  year. 


“Atmosphere  . . .”  He  took  a sam- 
ple. Oxygen,  diluted  with  some  inert 
gas.  He  couldn’t  quite  get  it,  but  it  was 
harmless.  Pretty  thin,  but  enough  to 
maintain  him  without  a mask  if  he 
moved  slowly. 

“Gravity  . . .”  About  a twentieth,  he 
judged.  He  weighted  his  boots  accord- 
ingly. He  stepped  out. 

The  cold  assailed  him  and  he  but- 
toned his  earflaps.  His  lungs  were 
stabbed  by  ice-needles,  but  it  became 
bearable  presently.  The  blood-stream 
sang  in  his  ears. 

Pie  looked  around.  Behind  the  ship 
stretched  a wilderness  of  gray-black 
rock  to  the  seemingly  near  and  cer- 
tainly curved  horizon.  Not  a tree,  not 
a shrub,  not  a lichen.  The  indigo  sky 
swept  down  over  it  like  the  roof  of  a 
cave  glittering  with  frost  particles.  He 
had  felt  lonely  for  so  long  now  that  it 
shouldn’t  have  mattered.  But  that  emp- 
tiness sent  an  ache  through  him,  and 
he  turned  his  back  on  it. 

Before  him  the  ground  ran  up  to  a 
ridge.  Perhaps  over  the  ridge  the  pros- 
I>ect  would  be  better.  He  began  to  climb 
slowly,  looking  for  vantage  points  for 
his  feet. 

"A  better  prospect  . . . Where  every 
prospect  pleases,  and  only  man  is  vile. 
. . . ‘In  durance  vile’  . . . vile  bodies  . . . 
bodies,  bodies,  bodies  . . . John  B — ” 

"Hey,  there!” 

He  looked  up  so  sharply  that  he  stum- 
bled. He  recovered  himself  and  stood 
very  still,  gazing  up  at  the  man  on  the 
crest  of  the  ridge.  A man.  A human 
man.  Looking  down  at  him  and  smiling. 
Dressed  as  he  himself  was,  in  U.  S. 
Interplanetary  Pioneers’  uniform.  One 
of  his  own  kind. 

He  opened  his  mouth  twice,  and  could 
say  nothing.  Slowly  the  tears  gathered, 
and  under  that  gentle  gravity  oozed 
down  his  cheeks  and  froze. 

"Hiya,”  he  said,  finally.  Oh,  feeble, 
animal-like  noise  to  greet  his  return  to 
mankind ! He  wanted  trumpets  to  sound 
over  that  desolate  landscape. 

He  scrambled  up  the  remainder  of 
the  slope  and  got  there  breathless,  with 
his  heart  thumping  like  a jazz  drum. 


1 1«6  THRn,LING  WONDER  STORIES 


The  man  was  still  there.  Still  smil- 
ling,  and  now  proffering  him  a ciga- 
rette. He  took  it  with  trembling  fingers. 
A match  flared  redly,  feeding  on  the 
1 oxygen. 

The  stranger  had  to  keep  it  going  for 
I him  for  some  time.  The  nameless  one 
took  a shuddering  drag,  and  looked 
rather  shyly  at  his  companion. 

It  was  strange.  The  face,  young, 
f>earded,  pale  but  cheerful,  looked  fa- 
miliar, Wt  he  couldn’t  place  it. 

“I’ve  seen  you  before  somewhere,’’  he 
said,  slowly. 

“No  doubt,’’  the  other  smiled.  “We’re 
in  the  same  outfit.” 

“I  know,  your  name’s  John  Brown.” 

"And  yours  r’ 

“I  . . . don’t  know.  I seem  to  have 
I forgotten.” 

“Is  your  buddy  back  in  the  ship?" 
asked  Brown,  jerking  his  thumb  at  the 
70-ton  ship  standing  on  its  tail  at  the 
I bottom  of  the  slope. 

“No.  He  died  . . . way  back.” 

“So  did  mine.  We  had  a crack-up  on 
I landing.” 

“Where’s  your  ship  now?" 

“Not  so  far  off,”  said  Brown,  care- 
' lessly. 

The  nameless  one  looked  down  the 
far  side  of  the  ridge,  seeking  it. 
He  saw  only  a panorama  in  general  the 
.'^■ame  as  the  one  behind  him  except 
that  there  seemed  to  have  been  a fall  of 
snow  in  this  direction.  Large  patches  of 
white  were  spread  out  over  the  rocks. 
One  reached  almost  to  the  crest  on  which 
they  stood. 

“What’s  that?”  he  asked.  “Snow? 
Frost?  Chalk  outcroppings?” 

“That,  pal,”  said  Brown;  “is  the  in- 
telligent life  on  this  planetoid.  Come 
down  and  I’ll  show  you.  You’re  going  to 
he  surprised.” 

The  nameless  one  took  a deliberate 
drag  at  his  cigarette.  It  was  an  unbe- 
lievable pleasure.  It  was  the  first  con- 
sciously deliberate  action  he  had  taken 
for  weeks.  It  showed  the  measure  of  his 
returning  self-control.  He  had  become 
im  integrated  being  again.  The  mere 
Ijresence  of  a fellow-man  had  stimulat- 


ed him  into  pulling  himself  together. 

He  was  no  automaton-cum-dreamer 
now.  He  was  a man,  a spaceman  of  much 
experience.  He  was  case-hardened. 
Momentarily,  he  felt  jaunty. 

“Nothing  would  surprise  me  now," 
he  said.  “On  P.  11  I found  intelligent 
fiber  life.  On  P.  15,  electrically  chargeci 
mercury  balls  running  in  mathematical 
curves  over  slate  beds — I never  had 
time  to  figure  that  one  out,  but  there  was 
intelligence  behind  it.”  He  flicked  his 
cigarette  butt  down  the  slope.  “P.  29 
was  one  great  crystal,  and  a sentient 
one,  at  that.  On  P.  37  there  were  rub- 
ber— ” 

He  stopped  because  the  white  patch 
just  below  them  grew,  very  rapidly,  an 
excrescence  like  a head  and  shoulders 
and  arms,  all  white  and  shiny-surfaced. 
And  a hand  like  a rubber  glove  reached 
out  and  caught  the  slowly  falling  butt, 
and  placed  it  where  the  mouth  would 
be  on  the  head. 

And,  lo,  there  was  a mouth,  and  a 
sketchy  face,  and  the  face  conveyed  en- 
joyment as  the  part-body  puffed  at  the 
cigarette  and  sent  tenuous  blue  clouds 
floating  above  its  head. 

The  automaton  in  the  nameless  one 
whipped  out  his  hand  machine-gun,  with 
its  flat  magazine  packed  with  a hun- 
dred needle-thin,  high-penetrating,  ex- 
plosive slugs. 

“Hold  it,”  said  Brown.  “It’s  harm- 
less.” 

Consciousness  resumed  control.  The 
nameless  one  put  his  gun  back  in  its 
holster. 

“If  you  say  so,”  he  said,  rather  jerk- 
ily. “What  is  itr’ 

Brown  said : “All  those  white  patches 
are  some  sort  of  gooey  stuff — something 
between  protoplasm,  gelatine,  and  soap- 
foam — which  appears  to  mold  itself  into 
any  shape  it  chooses.  I’ve  seen  some 
queer  shapes,  but  none  ot  them  has 
been  inimical.  They  seem  to  favor  the 
human  form.” 

“Perhaps  they’re  trying  to  be  polite,” 
said  the  nameless  one.  “Have  you  es- 
tablished any  communication?” 

He  regarded  the  thing  below,  which 
looked  like  the  bust  of  an  early  De 


THE  BONE  OF  CONTENTION  127 


Chirico  figure.  It  had  smoked  the  butt 
into  complete  ash,  and  now  sank  back 
into  its  parent  puddle. 

“In  a way,”  said  Brown.  “Come  down 
among  them  and  see  what  you  can  make 
of  it.” 

The  nameless  one’s  confidence  had 
grown  so  now  that  he  assented  with 
eagerness.  He  was  filling  out  rapidly.  He 
felt  almost  larger  than  life,  headily 
strong.  It  was  as  though  he’d  just  been 
released  from  the  penitentiary  after 
a ten-year  stretch  and  it  was  a fine 
spring  morning,  and  he  was  still  young, 
and  life  could  really  start  now. 

“Free!  Free!”  said  something  inside 
him. 

He  wanted  action.  “Let’s  go!”  he 
snapped,  and  went  striding  down  the 
slope.  But  he  had  to  slow  up.  There 
wasn’t  all  that  oxygen. 

Brown  followed.  They  skirted  the 
proximate  white  patch.  At  close  quarters 
its  viscosity  was  plain,  and  there  was  a 
sheen  over  it  like  an  earthworm’s  skin. 

A bulge  began  to  develop  at  the  edge 
twenty  yards  ahead  of  them.  It  became 
a roughly  globular  blob  that  separated 
itself,  with  ligaments  that  thinned  out 
like  drawn  chewing  gum,  broke  and 
withdrew  from  the  main  mass.  It 
squashed  itself  into  a column  a yard 
high.  It  took  on,  in  the  rough,  the  form 
of  a child,  a girl.  There  were  sugges- 
tions of  a short  skirt,  pigtails,  and  a 
pouting  face. 

As  they  approached  it,  it  turned  and 
began  half  slithering,  half  running 
away,  its  face  turned  back  over  its 
shoulder. 

Thoughts,  like  a faint  voice,  spoke 
In  the  nameless  one’s  mind. 

“. . . tell  my  Mom  you  broke  my  Pan- 
sy, you  nasty  boy.  Mom!  Jud’s  broken 
Pansy  . . .” 

The  shape  swerved  suddenly  aside 
and  back  into  the  patch.  It  ran  ever 
more  slowly  across  the  surface,  seem- 
ing to  sink  into  ^t  as  it  progressed,  as 
if  it  were  running  into  a swamp.  It  be- 
came waist-  and  then  shoulder-deep.  The 
knob  head  and  absurd  white  pigtails 
melted  like  candlegrease  into  the  com- 
mon flatness. 


The  nameless  one  had  stopped  to 
watch  it,  but  now  he  hardly  ob- 
served it.  It  disappeared  as  he  stood 
remembering. 

“Hey,  Brown,”  he  said,  as  the  other 
came  up  to  him.  “My  name  is  Jud.  I re- 
member it  now.  Jud  Parker.” 

“Glao  to  know  you,  Jud,”  said  Brown, 
smiling.  ‘What  did  you  think — uh — uh, 
something  fresh  coming  up.” 

It  was  an  elephant,  literally  a white 
elephant.  It  rose,  massive,  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  pool,  complete,  perfect.  It 
began  lumbering  toward  them. 

Nearer,  nearer,  looming  largely.  A 
ghastly  glimmering  bulk  with  blank 
white  eyes,  trunk  swaying,  lurching  di- 
rectly toward  them  under  the  indigo  sky. 

Abruptly,  Jud’s  gun  leapt  from  its 
holster.  Fifteen  needles  darted  from  the 
triple  barrel  and  passed  through  the  ele- 
phant. A thousand  yards  beyond  it  they 
hit  a spur  of  rock  and  blew  it  to  pow- 
der. 

The  elephant  came  on. 

Jud’s  thoughts  flew  as  fast  as  the 
bullets.  The  white  patch  was  probably 
a comparatively  thin  layer  with  rock 
beneath  it.  He  aimed  at  a point  directly 
below  the  elephant  and  fired  again.  With 
a noise  as  of  a great  door  slamming,  the 
elephant  flew  apart  like  a bursting  snow- 
ball, and  chunks  of  black  rock  raced  its 
white  fragments  through  the  thin  air. 

There  was  a dark  rater  where  it  had 
stood,  and  the  surrounding  white  stuff 
oozed  healingly  into  it. 

Brown  said:  “Don’t  do  that  again. 
I told  you  these  things  were  harmless. 
They  are  if  you  leave  them  alone.  But  if 
you  go  on  blasting  them  like  that  you 
may  find  you’ve  started  something  you’ll 
wish  you  hadn’t.” 

“They’d  better  learn  to  keep  their 
distance  from  me,”  growled  Jud,  turning 
on  him.  “Now,  look  here.  Brown,  be- 
fore we  go  on  let’s  find  out  where  we 
stand.  I don’t  want  to  quarrel  with  you. 
Just  mee+ing  up  with  you  has  put  new 
life  into  me.  I’d  been  driven  into  a state 
of  acute  melancholia  by  loneliness.  I 
want  to  keep  you  as  a pal,  as  an  insur- 
ance against  insanity.  How  did  you 
make  out  alone?” 


128  THRILLINO  WONDER  STORI^ 


“Not  80  hot.  I guess  I'm  not  meant  to 
lire  alone. ” 

“No  man  is,"  said  Jud.  “We're  gre- 
garious animals.  That’s  one  mistake  our 
Government  made — sending  us  out  in 
pairs.  If  one  croaks,  the  survivor  is  like- 
ly to  become  useless.  As  I did.  Psycho- 
logically, three  is  the  minimum  party 
for  rocket  crews.  They  should  have  fore- 
seen that.” 

“It  was  all  done  in  such  a hurry, 
racing  the  other  crowd,”  said  Brown. 
He  sat  himself  down  easily  on  a trun- 
cated cone  of  rock. 

“Another  thing  they  overlooked,” 
went  on  Jud,  “is  that  a man  is  part  of 
his  environment  and  vice  versa.  We're 
bundles  of  reflexes.  We  take  our  bear- 
ings from  the  familiar  things — the 
houses,  sidewalks,  trees,  customs,  facial 
and  verbal  expressions — ^the  things  we 
know.  When  we're  suddenly  lifted  up 
and  dumped  down  in  a totally  different 
environment,  we’re  lost  for  a while. 
We’ve  left  something  of  ourselves  back 
in  the  old  place.  Getting  accustomed  to 
the  new  environment  means  waiting  for 
that  lost  part  of  us  to  catch  up." 

“That’s  so,”  said  Brown.  "I  remember 
my  grandpop  saying  that  when  he  went 
from  New  York  to  London  by  those  old 
jet  planes  it  took  his  psyche  three  days 
to  catch  up  with  him.” 

‘T  remember  my  grandpop  saying  the 
same  thing.  How  would  they  have 
shaped  up  if  they'd  been  stuck  in  our 
position?  This  is  my  forty-first  plane- 
toid in,  say,  seven  months.  Each  one  a 
completely  different  environment  to 
adapt  myself  to.  Not  lightly  different, 
as  New  York  and  London  are.  But  to- 
tally different.  Different  air,  sky,  grav- 
ity, composition  and  the  crazy  forms  of 
life  you  had  to  try  to  understand.  And 
when  you’d  claimed  the  dam  place  and 
recorded  the  flora  and  fauna  and  mineral 
possibilities  and  began  to  feel  not  quite 
so  lost  you  had  to  move  on  to  the  next 
surprise  packet.  There's  bits  of  me  scat- 
tered all  over  the  asteroids.  I had  to 
move  too  fast  for  ’em  to  join  up  with  me 
again.  Boy,  was  I going  to  pieces!” 

"Another  governmental  mistake — they 
should  have  barred  introverts.  However, 


you  seem  to  have  pulled  yourself  to- 
gether now,”  said  the  other,  drily, 

“Yep.  And  now  I have  you  to  share 
my  rocket." 

"You  haven't,”  said  Brown.  "I’m  stay- 
ing here.” 

“What?”  said  Jud.  It  was  a flat,  me- 
chanical exclamation.  It  seemed  to  drop 
lifelessly  to  the  ground  between  them. 
He  couldn't  believe  he'd  heard  aright, 
and  didn’t  want  to  believe  it.  “What  did 
you  say?”  he  elaborated  slowly. 

“I  said  I'm  staying  here.” 

“But  you  said  you  weren’t  meant  to 
live  alone  T’ 

'T  shan’t  be  alone  here,”  said  Brown. 
He  looked  past  Jud.  Jud  turned,  follow- 
ing his  gaze.  The  white  patches,  which 
had  been  afar,  had  mov^  much  clo.ser 
to  them,  were  converging  on  them.  Each 
patch  carried  its  passengers:  doughy 
shapes,  most  of  them  quasi-human. 

“Friends  of  yours?”  asked  Jud.  He 
dropped  his  hand  to  his  gun. 

“Remember  what  I told  you,"  ad- 
monished Brown.  “Yes,  they’re  friends 
of  mine.  And  yours.  Old  friends.  Re- 
member any?” 

JUD  peered.  Four  patches  were  mov- 
ing towards  him,  rafts,  each  carry- 
ing five  or  six  clearly  human  forms  and 
a heterogeneous  collection  of  lumps  and 
mounds  and  wavering  objects.  Certain 
peculiarities  of  stance  and  attitude 
struck  him  as  familiar.  But  the  faces 
were  too  distant  yet,  and  too  fluid,  to 
put  labels  to  them. 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  Jud,  doubtfully. 
“Who  and  what  are  they?  Who’s  the 
head  man  among  them?" 

“The  chief  is  called  the  Change©." 
"The  Changeo?  Odd  name.  . . . Say, 
there’s  that  kid  again.  I know  that  kid. 
She  lived  next  door  to  me  in  the  Bronx, 
over  twenty  years  ago.  Lily,  her  name 
was.  Lily  White.  I remember  I went 
with  her  to  the  Bronx  Park  Zoo.  I broke 
her  doll.” 

"That’s  right,”  said  Brown,  indul- 
gently. "Just  after  you’d  both  had  a 
ride  on  the  elephant.  The  elephant  you 
just  blew  to  shreds.  Look,  there  it  is, 
forming  again  on  the  far  patch." 


THE  BONE  OF  CONTENTION  129 


Jud  stared  wide-eyed  at  it,  then 
swung  the  stare  around  upon  Brown. 

"How  the  blazes  did  you  know  about 
that?” 

"I  know  everything  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  you,”  said  Brown,  fingering  his 
trim  beard  and  regarding  Jud  pensively. 
•‘I’ll  refresh  your  memory.  Take  the 
nearest  group.  Reading  from  left  to 
right,  there’s  Bob  Pitcher,  who  became 
Lily’s  boy  friend.  Nat  Larkins,  who  used 
to  play  baseball  with  you  in  Brooklyn. 
Bridget  O’Hara,  whom  you  ran  around 
with  in  Washington.  Next  to  her — ” 

"George!”  breathed  Rud.  He  tried  to 
say  “George”  again,  and  choked  on  the 
name.  His  heart  had  leaped  like  a fright- 
«med  rabbit  and  was  thudding  in  great 
bounds.  His  lips  went  stiff. 

'The  white  figure  that  was  unmis- 
takably George — closer  now,  like  the 
others — smoothed  the  back  of  its  head 
with  one  hand : a characteristic  motion. 
George,  whom  he’d  seen  die  on  another 
world. 

And  to  the  trembling  Jud  there  came 
the  thought;  the  memory  of  a voice  say- 
ing: "Let’s  hope  we’re  the  first  arrivals 
on  this  one  too.  We  don’t  want  any 
shooting  war.” 

George  had  said  it  every  time  they 
were  bringing  their  ship  in  to  land  on 
a fresh  planetoid.  They’d  been  his  last 
words  l^fore  the  crash  landing  that 
killed  him. 

Jud  was  shocked  into  movement.  He 
whirled  on  Brown  again. 

“All  these  phantoms  are  coming  out 
of  my  mind,”  he  said,  grimly.  "But  I’m 
not  consciously  projecting  them.  It’s 
some  kind  of  hypnosis.  I don’t  know  how 
you  do  it — I don’t  care.  But  I can  guess 
who  you  are  and  what  you’re  up  to. 
You  want  to  drag  out  of  my  mind  all 
the  dope  I’ve  collected  about  the  aster- 
oids we  got  to  first.  For  your  Govern- 
ment. Well,  see  here — ” 

He  reached  down  to  grab  Brown  by 
the  arm  and  yank  him  to  his  feet. 

The  arm  came  off  in  his  hand. 

It  was  feather-light,  as  unsubstantial 
as  loap  lather.  He  squealed  -with  surprise 
and  disgust,  and  shook  his  fingers  free 
of  it.  It  floated  gently  to  the  ground. 


It  half  drifted,  half  squirmed  back  to  its 
motionless  owner  and  joined  on  again. 

Jud’s  stomach  had  had  one  jolt  too 
many.  He  threw  up. 

Then  he  sat  down  end  rested  his 
swimming  head  in  his  hands. 

Presently,  when  he  looked  up  he  was 
in  a closed  ring  of  silent  white  figures: 
George,  Nat,  Bob,  Lily  and  the  rest — 
relatives,  old  pals,  workmates,  people 
he’d  known  only  slightly — nearly  thirty 
of  them.  And  there  were  dimmer  figures 
behind  them,  shading  into  obscurity. 
And  objects  like  armchairs,  radios, 
desks,  bicycles,  mechanical  toys  and  go- 
carts  lay  on  all  sides,  a far  spreading 
pile  of  junk  like  the  hoarded  belongings 
of  a lifetime,  like  the  closing  shots  of 
that  old  classic.  Citizen  Kane. 

Overhead  the  stars  burned  in  the  in- 
digo sky  Only  the  <lark  crest-line  of  the 
ridge  looked  real,  hard,  tangible.  The 
rest  was  an  opium  dream. 

Brown  was  still  sitting  there  on  the 
flat-topped  cone  of  rock,  regarding 
him  gravely. 

Jud  said  wearily:  “All  right,  I don’t 
know  a thing.  I don’t  know  what  it’s 
all  about.  This  takes  the  priz?  as  the 
craziest  place  I ever  came  to.  I may  have 
gone  mad  myself,  but  I don’t  think  so. 
Who  are  you?  What  do  you  want?” 

“I  am  the  Changeo,”  said  Brown.  “I 
want  nothing  but  to  stay  here.” 

“You’re  welcome.  I want  nothing  but 
to  go.” 

"You  can’t  escape  from  your  mem- 
ories,” said  the  Changeo.  His  restored 
arm  made  a sweep  embracing  the  crowd. 

"You’re  made  of  the  same  stuff  as 
them.  Are  you  a memory  too?”  asked 
Jud. 

"In  a way.  But  I’m  nearer  to  you  than 
that.  They  are  shadows.  They  can  only 
repeat  what  they  said  or  did  in  the  past. 
I am  as  real  as  you.” 

"There’s  something  familiar  about 
you,  I admit.  But  . . , Brown?  I don’t 
know  why  I thought  you  were  Brown. 
I never  knew  a Brown.” 

"That’s  only  a name  you  pinned  on 
me  by  chance.  There  are  no  such  things 
as  individual  thoughts,  ideas,  or  mem- 


130  THRILLING  WONDBR  STORIES 


ories.  One  thought  joins  onto  another  by 
association.  But  you  know  your  psycho- 
analysis and  your  Janies  Joyce.  Every- 
one thinks  with  a great  tendency  to- 
wards unconscious  punning  and  word- 
twisting. The  moment  when  you  met 
me  your  mind  was  running  from  ‘vile 
bodies’  to  ‘John  Brown's  Body.’  You 
labeled  me  John  Brown.” 

“I  see,”  said  Jud.  He  surveyed  the 
white  shapes  around  them  and  he  real- 
ized he  was  looking  into  his  own  mind, 
externalized.  “I  get  it.  I saw  the  white 
-stuff.  White.  Lily  White.  White  elephant. 
I broke  her  doll  after  an  elephant  ride 
at  the  Zoo.  She  never  spoke  to  me  again. 
She  went  with  Bob  Pitcher.  Pitcher — 
baseball  with  Nat  Larkins  in  Brooklyn. 
Brooklyn — Bridge — Bridget  O’Hara,  of 
Washington.  Washington — George.  . . . 
I can  trace  it  right  back.  Except  . . . 
where  do  you  fit  in?  The  Changeo — that 
means  nothing.” 

“You  would  like  it  to  mean  nothing,” 
said  the  Changeo.  “You  are  reluctant 
to  admit  I exist.  You  try  to  cloak  me 
with  meaninglessness.  You  are  like  peo- 
ple who  say  ‘passed  away’  instead  of 
‘died,’  because  they’re  frightened  to  face 
the  reality  of  death.  Trace  it  back.  It’s 
in  your  mind.  I’ll  start  you:  ‘Changeo’ 
is  a portmanteau  word.” 

“Changeo  . . . Change  Geo?" 

“Yes.” 

“Change  Geo,”  murmured  Jud. 
“Change  Geo  for  what?  Is  it  an  ana- 
gram? Change  Geo — to  Ego?” 

“Yes.” 

“That  makes  it  Change  Ego.  I get  it. 
Alter  Ego!  You  are  my  alter  ego." 

“I  am.  This  is  the  only  place  in  the 
.solar  system  where  I can  take  up  my 
separate  existence.  The  only  place  where 
there  is  an  abundance  of  this  plasma. 
I'm  not  solid  flesh,  like  you,  but  I’m 
halfway  towards  it,  which  is  better  than 
being  a state  of  mind — a state  of  mind 
in  constant  conflict  at  that.” 

The  voice  of  his  other  self  was  calm 
and  level.  It  was  conversational,  charged 
with  no  emotion.  It  might  have  been  the 
next-door  neighbor  remarking  on  the 
weather.  But  Jud  sensed  that  the  other’s 
freedom  was  in  some  sense  inimical  to 


his  own.  That  whatever  was  the  basic 
meaning  of  this  fantastic  charade,  the 
whole  set-up  was  a trap. 

Covertly,  he  began  to  weigh  the 
chances  of  breaking  out. 

Although  the  white  shapes  had  moved 
to  encompass  him,  they  did  not  appear 
to  be  aware  of  him.  Like  a crowd  of 
lunatics  at  exercise,  they  shambled  in 
their  circle  around  him,  each  living  in  a 
private  world.  They  mouthed  at  invisible 
companions  or  used  invisible  tools  or 
walked  or  stood  in  silent  thought.  They 
were  haphazard  memories  from  inci- 
dents he  could  now  only  i>artially  recall. 

He  could  make  a guess  at  the  nature 
of  the  plasma.  It  was  that  stuff  whose 
existence  the  neurologists  and  physiolo- 
gists had  suspected  for  many  years  but 
had  never  been  able  to  isolate  on  Earth : 
the  missing  link  between  mind  and  mat- 
ter. It  was  intermediate  stuff,  like  the 
mesons  of  atomic  physics. 

It  was  the  long-sought  connection  be- 
tween the  electrical  charge  in  the  brain 
cell  called  a “thought”  and  the  moving 
of  a material  arm  or  leg.  The  bridge  be- 
tween the  anxiety  neurosis  and  the 
duodenal  ulcer. 

It  was  the  medium  of  Professor  J.  B. 
Rhine’s  demonstrable  and  proven  P.  K. 
effect. 

As  long  ago  as  1949,  H.  H.  Price, 
Wykeham  Professor  of  Logic  at  Oxford, 
had  said:  “Every  idea  has  an  inherent 
tendency  to  t»anifeat  itself  in  physical 
form.  P.  K.  is  ideo-motor  operation  oc- 
curring apart  from  the  nervous  system 
and  muscles,  instead  of  by  means  of 
them." 

rwas  a long  shot,  but  perhaps  the 
magligned,  though  much  photo- 
graphed, ectoplasm  of  the  seance  room 
had  not  invariably  been  cheese-cloth. 
There  was  the  testimony  of  Crookes.  . . . 

The  end  of  the  century  had  seen  the 
slow  crumbling  of  material  science  as  a 
complete  philosophy.  The  materialists 
were  still  clinging  obstinately  to  their 
objective  world,  but  a sea  of  subjective 
thought  was  washing  their  supports 
away. 

They  had  produced  their  atomic  drive 


THE  BONE  OF  CONTENTION  181 


almost  in  desperation.  “See !”  they  cried. 
“We  have  given  you  the  key  to  the  uni- 
verse. Go  forth  now  and  everywhere  you 
will  find  the  confirmation  of  our  beliefs." 

But  -Tud  knew  when  they  came  to 
Planetoid  41  their  day  would  be  over. 
Their  e.apire  would  pass  into  the  hands 
of  the  psychologists  and  the  moralists, 
the  real  philosophers,  the  seers  if  not 
the  saints. 

He  must  .escape,  not  only  for  his  own 
sake,  but  to  open  the  way  to  the  more 
comprehensive  science. 

And  suddenly  he  was  seized  with 
l>anic  lest  the  Changeo  knew  his  present 
thoughts. 

He  said,  as  casually  as  ho  could:  "If 
you  are  my  other  self,  you  must  look 
like  me.” 

"I  look  as  you  did  when  you  first 
joined  the  Pioneers,  when  you  had  a 
pretty  good  idea — and  opinion — of  your 
own  appearance.  That’s  a memory  just 
below  the  level  of  your  consciousness.  It 
sank — like  the  memory  oi  your  name. 
You  can’t  quite  recall  it.” 

“I’ve  no  ,dea  of  my  present  appear- 
ance,” said  Jud.  “I  only  know  my  beard 
is  longer  and  wilder,  I haven’t  trimmed 
it  in  months.”  He  was  fingering  it  as  he 
•spoke. 

(Surely  the  ring  was  thinnest  down 
the  slope?  Bid  he  would  have  to  go  up 
the  slope  to  make  the  ship.  Wait.  The 
shapes  were  stHl  moving  around.  It  was 
only  a matter  of  time  before  the  thin 
point  Would  lie  in  a more  favorable 
direction.  Wait.) 

Aloud,  he  said:  ‘T  suppose  you  were 
referring  to  being  a part  of  my  state 
of  mind,  in  conflict?” 

The  Changeo  crossed  his  legs  and 
folded  his  arms  and  looked  as  if  he  were 
settling  down  to  a nice  long  chat  on  a 
point  of  interest. 

“Yes,  Jud,”  he  said.  “There’s  a 
Changeo  in  the  mind  of  every  man. 
It  arises  inevitably  from  his  physical 
makeup.  As  Alexis  Carrell  said,  for 
every  organic  state  there’s  a correspond- 
ing state  of  mind.  The  chromosomes  in 
the  body  cells  of  a woman  are  in  matched 
pairs.  Not  so  in  a man.  He’s  impure  in 
his  chromosome  makeup.  His  pairs  all 


consist  of  one  large  female-type  chromo- 
some and  one  smaller,  different  and 
much  more  active  type.  They’re  ill- 
matched  companions.  "They  pull  differ- 
ent ways.  iLan  is  basically  unbalanced. 
Beneath  the  surface  of  consciousness  he 
is  a civil  war,  a bone  of  contention,” 
For  a moment  Jud’s  attention  was 
deflected.  He  was  interested. 

“I  guess  thst’s  why  there’s  a far 
higher  percentage  of  insanity  among 
males  than  among  females,”  he  said. 
“Ditto  genius.” 

“Perhaps.  D.  H.  Lawrence  was  a no- 
table example,  a genius  and  a walking 
civil  war,  if  there  ever  was  one.  He 
knew  of  this  basic  conflict  intuitively. 
He  called  the  participants — that  is,  the 
chromosomes — the  Will-to-Motion  and 
the  Will-to-Inertia.” 

“The  actor  and  the  dreamer,”  mused 
Jud. 

“And  I am  the  dreamer,”  said  the 
Changeo.  “You’ve  never  wanted  to  be 
tied  to  me  and  I can  assure  you  the 
sentiment  is  mutual.  You  were  a con- 
stant disturbance,  interrupting  my  rev- 
erie, always  dashing  around  seeking  ac- 
tion and  adventure.  Always  trying  to 
break  away  from  me — that’s  why  you 
joined  the  Pioneers.  But  you  slipped  up 
there,  you  played  into  my  hands.  You 
lost  cohesion,  especially  after  the  end  of 
George  and  his  reassurance,  and  it  was 
I,  the  introspective  one,  who  got  on  top.” 
“I  know,”  said  Jud,  with  a spasm  of 
irritation.  “You  and  your  idle,  pointless 
dreaming!  A man  has  more  important 
things  to  do  than  that.” 

The  Changeo  said,  without  resent- 
ment: “Meditation  is  the  highest  form 
of  existence.  The  West  has  so  much  to 
learn  from  the  East  in  that  respect.” 
But  Jud  had  returned  his  attention  to 
the  ring  of  white  shapes,  seeking  the 
weakest  point,  not  covertly  now  but 
openly  and  impatiently.  He  dropped  his 
hand  to  the  butt  of  his  gun. 

The  Changeo  uncrossed  his  legs  and 
stood  up,  extending  a dissuading 

arm. 

“Wait,”  he  said.  “You’ll  get  nowhere 
by  precipitate  action.  Because  I’m  sev- 


132  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


ered  from  your  mind  in  this  place,  you 
think  you  are  free  to  act  as  you  please. 
You  are,  but  only  so  long  as  you  remain 
in  this  place,  where  we  can  have  sepa- 
rate existences.  Stay  here.  The  planetoid 
is  big  enough  for  both  of  us.” 

"What  is  there  to  do  for  me  here?” 
blazed  Jud.  “Nothing  but  sit  on  my  end 
and  contemplate  my  navel  and  browse 
over  my  memory  album.  Stay  here  your- 
self. I’m  getting  out.” 

He  fired  several  times  at  the  thin  point 
in  the  ring  and  blasted  a clear  gap.  The 
memory  images  on  either  side  of  it  were 
not  perturbed,  and  continued  their  aim- 
less movements. 

He  bounded  through  before  the  gap 
could  close  of  itself.  Outside,  he  had  to 
stop,  whooping  for  breath.  Planetoil  41 
hadn’t  the  atmosphere  for  violent  action. 
He  recovered  and  started  up  the  slope, 
looking  over  his  shoulder.  The  ring  had 
closed,  the  shapes  seemed  to  be  melting 
into  one  another  and  sinking  and  the 
plasma  was  subsiding  slowly  into  a pool. 

The  Changeo  wasn’t  there. 

He  was  on  the  crest,  waiting  for  Jud. 
Parker  set  his  teeth  and  climbed.  When 
he  was  in  earshot,  the  Changeo  called 
out: 

"Must  you  always  be  an  impulsive 
fool?  You  can’t  escape  from  me — ” 

“Try  to  stop  me,  you  soap  bubble!” 
growled  Jud.  “Out  of  my  way!” 

The  Changeo  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
folded  his  arms  and  stood  there.  He 
looked  resigned. 

“I  see  that  separated  from  me  you 
lack  reason  altogether,”  he  said. 

“Are  you  getting  out  of  my  path?” 

“No.” 

Jud  put  a needle  in  a spot  a foot  be- 
low the  crest.  The  hard  explosion  bit  a 
nick  in  the  crest-line  and  the  Changeo 
became  a white-flecked  gray  cloud  which 
expanded  rapidly  and  stood,  a giant 
sentinel,  on  the  ridge. 

Chunks  of  rock  rained  down.  One 


grazed  Jud’s  temple  with  searing  heat 
and  knocked  him  reeling.  The  blood 
poured  down  his  cheek,  ran  and  dripped 
from  his  beard.  He  was  not  aware  of  it. 
He  was  not  aware  of  anything  very 
much.  His  mind  was  spinning  like  a 
whirligig. 

He  staggered  to  the  crest.  Right  below 
him,  shining  under  the  star-spotted  in- 
digo sky,  was  his  ship.  The  robot  in  him 
took  over. 

“Return  to  ship.  Close  the  door. 
Choose  the  venturas.  Set  the  drive.  Re- 
lax. Press  the  button.  . . .” 

He  did  ell  of  these  things. 

Presently,  the  planetoid  lay  behind,  a 
bright  crescent,  big  as  the  Moon  seen 
from  Earth. 

Earth!  Where  was  Earth?  It  was  one 
of  those  bright  pinholes  in  the  sable  cur- 
tain outside  the  window.  Oh,  the  answer 
was  in  his  charts,  all  right.  Only,  to  plot 
the  position  of  Earth  when  you  were  not 
sure  of  your  own  position,  or  of  your 
memory,  your  ability,  or  your  sanity. . . . 

He  mustn’t  think  that.  He  was  a bit 
confused,  that  was  all. 

The  robot  in  him  dictated:  five  hun- 
dred kilometres  out,  set  the  course  for 
the  next  Asteroid,  No.  42.  . . .” 
“Wait.”  Somewhere  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  a dim  thought  struggled,  and  went 
on:  “There’s  something  important  to 
take  back  to  Earth. . . . The  mind-matter 
link.  . . . Open  up  the  broader  under- 
standing for  mankind.  . . . The  reign  of 
physical  science  ended.  . . .” 

".  . . will  NOT  be  accepted  as  an  excuse  lor 
return,”  said  the  illuminated  notice  on  the 
control  panel  sternly.  “Unless  a Uranium 
deposit  reachini;  Scale  60  . . .” 

“Uranium  deposit  . . . Scale  60  . . . 
deposit  Uranium  in  the  scale.  . . . The 
scales  have  fallen  from  my  eyes.  ...  I 
will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills, 
from  whence  cometh  my  help  . . . help  . . . 
help  . . .” 

But  he  was  beyond  help. 


THE  CYBERNETIC  BRAINS,  a novel  of  men  and  machines  by  Raymond  F.  Jone*, 
plus  a Captain  Future  novelet  and  many  other  stories  in  the  September 
STARTLING  STORIES — now  on  sole,  25c  at  oil  stondsi 


Jhs  S£dad  QiJd^jnA 


By  WALT  SHELDON 


To  be  a social  cUmber  on  Venus  you  had 
to  be  a vegetarian — or  a vegetable.  . . . 


I LIKE  to  be  different,  and  Bronson 
knew  it. 

“No  gravy-blast  landing  now,”  be  said 
in  his  stuffy,  measured  way,  as  we 
neared  Venus.  “A  conventional  involute 
orbit,  please.” 

How  do  you  like  that?  Afraid  to  trust 


me  with  a gravy-blast,  or  straight-in 
approach.  Me — the  first  guy  to  take  a 
sUp  through  the  light  barrier,  even  if 
it  did  disintegrate  and  keep  me  orbiting 
in  a liferoid  for  thirty  earth  days.  Me, 
the  only  guy  who  ever  handled  Martian 
red  dust  and  lived  to  tell  the  tale.  From 


133 


134  THRILI.ING  WONDER  STORIES 


a hospital,  of  course,  but  just  the  same 
I told  it. 

So  I gave  Commander  Richard  Bron- 
son a dirty  look,  which  wasn’t  quite 
dirty  enough,  however,  to  smutch  up  his 
laundered  whites  and  handsome  profile. 
As  usual,  he  looked  as  though  he’d  just 
stepped  out  of  a shower.  He  was  about 
forty — but  the  kind  of  forty  women 
mean  when  they  say  a man  isn’t  really 
attractive  until  he’s  forty. 

“Okay,”  I growled.  “Conventional 
orbit.” 

He  nodded,  cleared  his  throat  and 
went  back  to  the  infrascopes  to  look 
some  more  at  Venus. 

I cut  in  the  steering  jets  and  swerved 
the  Hyacinth  into  its  curve.  Takes  a 
couple  of  days  to  do  it  this  way — circling 
the  planet  and  giving  over  to  its  gravity 
little  by  little — I could  have  gravy- 
blasted  it  in  a matter  of  hours.  But  not 
with  Bronson  running  things.  He’d  been 
on  my  neck  ever  since  we  left  earth- 
pattern;  sometimes  I wished  I’d  never 
taken  the  job.  But,  at  that,  I could  hard- 
ly turn  down  the  honor  of  piloting  the 
Second  Venusian  Expedition.  Some’ll 
try  to  tell  you  they  couldn’t  find  another 
pilot  wacky  enough  to  go  along.  But 
don’t  you  believe  that. 

1 yawned  and  started  the  long  spiral 
in. 

RONSON  stayed  at  the  scopes. 
“Whatcha  looking  at  now?”  I 
called  over  my  shoulder. 

“Heaven  knows.”  He  sighed,  and 
shook  his  head  sadly.  “I  can  see  below 
the  cloud  layer,  but  it  isn’t  of  much  use. 
All  I can  see  is  green.” 

“Maybe  it’s  St.  Patrick’s  day  on 
Venus,”  I said. 

He  became  stern.  “Captain  James,”  he 
said — he  wouldn’t  call  me  Pete,  like 
everybody  else  does — “Venus  is  no  jok- 
ing matter.” 

"Sure,”  I said.  “I  know  that.  Why  do 
you  think  I came  along?  I could  be 
working  a nice,  cushy  moon  run,  get- 
ting ready  to  die  of  old  age  if  I wanted 
to.” 

“Nor  is  this  expedition,”  he  went  on, 
as  though  he  hadn’t  heard  me,  and  at 


that  maybe  he  hadn’t,  "one  to  provide 
you  with  a setting  for  the  sort  of  cheap 
adventure  you  seem  to  prize  so  highly.” 

“Oh,  moon-juice,”  I said,  and  turned 
back  to  the  control  panel. 

He  was  right,  only  he  didn’t  have  to 
be  so  stuffy  about  it.  I knew  well  enough 
that  this  was  the  first  Venusian  trip  in  a 
score  of  years,  and  only  the  invention  of 
the  decel  had  made  it  possible.  Before 
this  nearly  every  ship  heading  for  Venus 
had  to  overshoot,  and  most  of  them  got 
drawn  into  the  sun.  All  except  the  ship 
of  the  First  Venusian  Expedition,  which 
had  sent  a message  that  they  were  land- 
ing and  had  then  disappeared  from  the 
ken  of  man.  The  members  of  this  second 
bunch  kind  of  had  hopes  of  finding  them. 
Or  traces  of  them. 

So  I orbited  on. 

After  a while  Della  came  into  the  con- 
trol room  and  I began  to  feel  at  lot  better 
about  things  in  general. 

“Hello,  Pete,”  she  said,  nodding  to  me 
— strictly  in  passing — and  then  with 
considerably  more  warmth  to  Bronson; 
“Hello,  Dick.  How’s  it  look  ?” 

We  were  darkside,  but  just  the  same 
the  control  room  was  full  of  sun.  All 
Della  has  to  do  is  walk  someplace — and 
there  is  sun.  Or  its  equivalent.  She  is 
blonde  and  about  my  height,  which  is 
tall  for  a woman;  she  is  antelope-lean 
and  walks  as  though  an  egg  were  on 
her  head  and  she  didn’t  want  to  break 
it.  She  is,  in  short,  gorgeous.  And  1 
didn’t  worry  about  her  impersonal  smile 
in  my  direction.  Takes  time  for  dames 
to  appreciate  me ; I have  to  kind  of  grow 
on  them. 

“Still  can’t  see  much,”  Bronson  was 
saying,  turning  to  her,  and  looking  at 
her  adoringly,  as  any  man  in  his  right 
senses  would.  “Just  foliage.  Or  green 
stuff,  anyway.  But  you’re  the  botanist — 
maybe  it  will  make  sense  to  you.” 

She  looked.  It  didn’t.  She  kept  looking, 
anyway.  Commander  Richard  Bronson 
slipped  his  arm  around  her  waist. 

I unwrapped  a piece  of  Martian  salt 
candy  and  began  to  munch  on  it. 

“Look  here — what  are  you  eating?” 
Bronson  asked  me  suddenly. 

I told  him. 


THE  SALAD  CITIZENS  135 


"Captain  James,”  he  said,  “you  know 
better  than  that.  You  know  that  only 
approved  rations  are  to  be  eaten  on  a 
trip  like  this.” 

“Agh,  moon-juice,"  I said  again,  and 
tossed  the  salt  candy  on  the  floor. 

Regulations  were  fine  in  some  ways — 
and  in  many  cases  it  was  best  to  stick 
to  the  pills  and  concentrates  that  were 
supposed  to  nourish  you  in  space'.  But 
I've  seen  too  many  guys  get  weak  in 
both  the  body  and  the  head  from  bulk 
hunger.  After  all,  I've  been  knocking 
around  space  a long  time. 

I went  back  to  piloting  until  my  relief 
came,  and  then  spent  the  next  few  earth 
days  paying  attention  strictly  to  busi- 
ness. Everybody,  in  fact,  was  busy  get- 
ting ready  for  planetfall.  Pretty  soon  we 
v/ent  deep  in  Venus’s  cloud  layer  and 
watched  the  iridescent,  poisonous  stuff 
swirl  by  the  ports  and  bubbles,  and  we 
kept  the  ship  entirely  on  orth.  'The  spec- 
tres clicked  away  at  the  land.  They 
found,  after  a while,  a huge  flat  place 
that  wasn’t  all  choked  with  foliage  like 
the  rest  of  the  surface,  and  it  was  there 
that  we  landed. 

I was  with  the  first  group  to  set  foot 
on  Venus.  We  stood  in  the  hatchway, 
waiting  for  the  final  results  on  the  at- 
mosphere and  ray  tests. 

Bronson  looked  at  me  coldly.  “Where 
is  your  space  suit,  Captain?” 

“Look,”  I said,  “what  did  we  all  take 
chemical  modification  in  the  bio-bay  for 
if  we’re  going  to  wear  space  suits?” 

“The  si>ace  suit  is  a double  precau- 
tion,” said  Bronson.  “You’ll  have  to 
wear  it.” 

“Exploring  in  a space  suit!"  I said 
disgustedly.  “It’s  like  washing  your  feet 
with  your  socks  on." 

Just  the  same  I put  one  on.  I didn’t 
want  anybody  to  get  the  idea  I was  un- 
cooperative. 

WE  all  descended  finally  to  a broad, 
flat  green  plain  covered  with 
short  grass.  Very  short,  but  thick ; like 
mohair  nap.  There  was  cloud  cover 
everywhere  and  the  light  was  milky  and 
unreal.  Everything  was  moist.  The 
meteorologist  was  muttering  about  how 


remarkably  the  moisture  hugged  the 
surface,  and  how  this  had  probably  led 
early  Twentieth  Century  astronomers 
to  believe  there  was  no  HjO  on  Venus. 

“We’ll  spectromap  this  big  green  plain 
pretty  thoroughly,”  Bronson  said. 
“There’s  a good  chance  the  First  Ex- 
pedition might  have  landed  here.” 

And  so  the  handlers  began  to  unload, 
and  the  bio-crew  began  to  set  up  its 
field  station  and  the  telenews  bunch  be- 
gan to  whirr  cameras  at  everything. 
I had  nothing  in  particular  to  do.  I 
looked  around.  I saw  the  long  wall  of 
foliage  over  to  the  left,  where  the  jungle 
began,  and  decided  to  wander  over  there. 

The  jungle  was  incredibly  thick,  all 
of  it.  'Trunks  and  reeds  and  branches 
and  creepers  and  tendrils  and  leaves — 
all  matted  together  like  loose  hair  after 
you  brush  a Persian  cat.  And  each  of 
these  things  in  varied,  sometimes  crazy 
shapes.  Some  were  hard,  some  thorny, 
some  knife-edged.  Most  of  this  vegetable 
matter,  I noticed,  had  a very  rubbery 
consistency,  too. 

I tried  pulling  some.  It  snapped. 

I grinned.  Here  was  an  idea — I'd 
make  a slingshot.  I can  always  think  of 
things  like  that,  you  see,  to  keep  myself 
from  getting  bored.  I unsheathed  my 
knife  and  looked  around  for  the  most 
suitable  tendrils.  I liked  the  long,  flat 
ones  that  grew  from  a plant  that  seemed 
to  run  around  six  feet  tall.  This  speci- 
men came  out  of  the  ground  in  two 
trunks,  which  merged  into  one  a couple 
of  feet  from  the  ground,  and  then  ended 
in  a large,  cabbage-size,  pinkish  blossom 
at  the  top.  I stepped  toward  one  of  the 
plants. 

It  pulled  its  two  trunks  out  of  the 
ground  with  a soft,  sucking  noise,  and 
then  it  walked  away  from  me. 

I watched,  interested,  for  a moment, 
as  the  thing  snapped  and  stretched  itself 
so  that  it  could  disappear  into  the  thick- 
ness of  the  jungle.  Suddenly — with  cold- 
water  shock — it  came  to  me  what  I had 
seen.  A plant  walking.  I brought  my 
head  up  quickly,  bumping  my  nose  on 
the  inner  surface  of  the  plastibubble. 

“Holy,  blinding  red  dust  of  Mars!” 
I said. 


tS6  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


“What?  What  did  you  say?”  came 
Bronson’s  voice. 

I’d  forgotten  I was  on  communicator. 
Bronson  was  talking  to  me  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  space  ship. 

“Commander,”  I said,  “you  better 
come  over  here.  I just  saw  a plant  get 
up  and  walk.  Doggondest  thing — ” 

“I’ll  get  'Della  and  be  right  over,” 
Bronson  said. 

He  and  Della  came  along  a few  min- 
utes later  and  I carefully  told  them  what 
I’d  seen  and  showed  them  exact  spot 
where  I’d  seen  it.  I pointed  out  the  kind 
of  plant. 

“This  tall  kind  right  here,”  I said.  I 
drew  my  knife  again.  “Now  watch.”  I 
walked  toward  it  It  wouldn’t  budge. 
“That’s  funny,”  I said. 

While  they  stood  there,  coldly  waiting, 
I tried  at  least  a dozen  other  similar 
plants  and  tried  to  get  them  to  move. 
Not  one  would. 

“Pete,”  asked  Della,  “you  haven’t  been 
chewing  Martian  buttons  have  you?” 

“Or  doing  unauthorized  eating  and 
drinking?”  Bronson  put  in  quickly. 

“Look — I saw  the  thing  move.  I swear 
it.  I took  a knife  and  walked  over  to  it 
like  this,  and  it  got  up  and  walked  away. 
I saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.” 

Bronson  shook  his  head.  “Maybe  you 
ought  to  have  a bio-psycho  check.  Cap- 
tain. Maybe  you’ve  got  a touch  of  space 
fatigue.” 

“Commander,”  I said,  “why  don’t  you 
go  soak  your  head  in  a bucket  of  cosmic 
rays?”  I turned  on  my  heel  and  went 
back  to  ship. 

Well,  I had  my  bio-psycho  check.  It 
turned  out  that  I was  in  perfect  shape, 
physically  and  mentally,  I could  have 
told  them  that  in  the  first  place.  Well,  no 
difference.  After  the  check  there  was 
nothing  Bronson  could  do  but  let  me  go 
my  own  way.  Which  I darned  well  in- 
tended to  do.  I would  investigate,  be- 
cause no  animated  hunk  of  spinach  was 
going  to  make  a Saturnian  ape  out  of 
me. 

The  next  time  I set  out  for  the  jungle 
nobody  bothered  me.  They  were  all  deep 
in  their  work,  now — charting,  mapping, 
analyzing,  recording.  Science,  unlimited. 


Fine  stuff  for  some  people,  I guess,  but 
give  me  a little  romance  and  adventure, 
personally.  I felt  expectant,  tingly,  out 
there  by  myself  crossing  this  vast,  green 
Venusian  plain.  I switched  my  communi- 
cator off.  That  felt  so  good  that  it  gave 
me  the  further  idea  to  get  out  of  my 
clumsy  space  suit.  When  I got  to  the 
edge  of  the  jungle  I did  just  that. 

I propped  the  space  suit  against  a 
bush,  leaving  it  plainly  visible  so  I could 
find  it  again  when  I got  back.  Then  I 
wandered. 

I went  north.  I walked  aimlessly  along 
the  edge  of  the  thick  growth.  It  felt  fine 
to  have  air  on  my  cheek  again,  even 
if  it  was  hot,  moist,  sticky  air.  It  was 
a thrill  to  inhale  and  enjoy  the  heavy 
fragrance  of  all  the  greenery  every- 
where. 

Each  time  I passed  one  of  the  plants 
with  the  two  leg-like  trunks — and 
they  were  everywhere — I examined  it 
closely.  Sometimes  I would  pretend  to 
walk  past  one,  then  suddenly  whirl  at 
it,  hoping  I might  startle  it  into  move- 
ment. No  soap.  They  just  weren’t  walk- 
ing this  day.  I looked  at  the  roots  and 
saw  that  they  didn’t  penetrate  very  far. 
At  least  it  would  be  possible  for  one  to 
pick  himself  up  and  stroll  off. 

I wandered  perhaps  a mile.  I found  a 
little  hummock  and  sat  down  on  it  and 
tried  to  think.  All  I could  think  about 
was  that  I was  hungry. 

One  of  those  restless  hunks  of  broc- 
coli grew  nearby.  I kept  looking  at  its 
pale,  green,  tender,  juicy  shoots  and  my 
mouth  began  to  water.  We’d  been  living 
on  what  amounted  to  a pill  diet — those 
scientifically  balanced  concentrates — 
long  enough  for  me  to  feel  the  begin- 
nings of  bulk  hunger ; the  light-headed- 
ness  and  weakness  and  lassitude  that 
gets  space  travelers  after  a while.  The 
more  I looked  at  this  lovely  Venusian 
green  stuff  the  more  I wanted  it.  It  did 
cross  my  mind  that  it  might  be  poison- 
ous or  something,  but  what  the  devil,  I 
was  the  guy  who’d  handled  Martian  red 
dust  and  gotten  away  with  it,  wasn’t  I ? 

I plucked  off  a tendril  and  bit  into 
it. 


THE  SALAD 

Well. 

How  can  I describe  the  effect  of  that 
wondrous  and  unworldly  greenery?  It 
was  like  the  crisp  end  of  a grass  shoot 
plucked  from  the  meadow  on  a hot  sum- 
mer’s day  after  a swim — ^your  very  first 
one  at  the  age  of  nine  or  ten  when  every- 
thing is  still  delightful  and  new.  The 
taste  was  sweet,  but  also  light  and  clear. 
Kind  of  intoxicating,  as  a matter  of  fact. 

I savored  the  stuff  for  a moment. 
Then  I sat  and  waited  to  see  if  anything 
would  happen  to  me.  Nothing  did.  I tried 
another  tendril  and  then  another  one 
after  that.  I guess  I ate  a dozen. 

They  must  have  been  nourishing.  I 
felt  not  only  satisfied  and  full,  but  as 
though  new  strength  suddenly  had 
surged  through  my  veins.  I felt  as 
though  I might  at  this  moment  whip  a 
pack  of  Saturnian  apes  with  nothing 
sharper  than  a screw  driver  for  a 
weapon. 

I got  up  and  did  a little  capering 
dance  in  the  Venusian  grass.  Then  I 
turned  and  headed  south,  back  to  the 
spot  where  I’d  left  my  space  suit. 

I saw  the  bush — I was  sure  it  was  the 
same  one.  I’d  picked  it  because  it  stood 
out  from  the  jungle  edge  a little  bit  and 
was  surrounded  by  three  bright  red 
flowers.  I walked  up  to  it,  circled  it, 
stared,  and  then  scratched  my  head. 

My  space  suit  was  gone. 

I thought  for  a moment.  I held  my 
chin  in  my  fingers.  Then  I let  go  of  my 
chin  and  snapped  my  fingers.  Of  course. 
Bronson — Commander  Richard  Bronson 
— had  taken  it.  He  would.  It  was  his 
nasty  way  of  chiding  me  for  taking  it 
off.  Now  I’d  have  to  go  through  a big 
orbit  with  him  about  breaking  regula- 
tions and  so  forth.  I shrugged,  and 
turned  to  go  back  to  the  space  ship. 

Bronson  was  walking  toward  me. 
Della,  in  her  smaller  space  suit,  was  be- 
side him.  I frowned,  and  stepped  toward 
him  too  and  I was  just  about  to  slip  in 
the  first  punch  by  asking  what  the  hell 
he’d  done  with  my  space  suit,  when  he 
pointed  to  me.  His  voice  came  through 
the  audio  filter. 

He  said,  “Where’s  your  space  suit. 
Captain?’’ 


CITIZENS  137 

I said,  “You  ought  to  know.  Com- 
mander.” 

He  said,  "If  I knew  I wouldn’t  be  ask- 
ing you.” 

And  then  it  came  to  me  that  he 
wouldn’t,  either.  He  was  much  too  stuffy 
even  to  indulge  in  a little  bit  of  sarcasm. 

I scowled  and  said,  “I  thought  you 
took  my  space  suit.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon?”  he  said  blankly. 

“Look,”  I said,  “let’s  back  up  carefully 
and  start  all  over  again.” 

This  we  did.  Seemed  that  Bronson 
had  just  come  to  this  spot,  after  seeing 
me  stroll  along  the  jungle’s  edge.  He 
hadn’t  seen  my  space  suit  at  all.  I 
wouldn’t  have  believed  it,  really — except 
that  Della  silently  back^  it  all  up. 

“Well,  then,”  I asked,  “where  the 
devil  is  the  thing?”  I started  to  look 
around.  Right  then  I noticed  the  tracks. 
“Whoa,”  I said.  “Look." 

They  followed  my  point.  The  indenta- 
tions in  the  soft  loam  led  from  the  bush 
into  the  jungle  Itself,  and  they  were, 
without  question — footprints. 

Only  they  had  been  made  by  some 
kind  of  soft  moccasins  or  sandals,  clear- 
ly not  by  space  boots.  In  other  words, 
by  no  member  of  the  expedition. 

“Very  interesting,”  said  Bronson, 
scowling  and  bending  over  them. 

I started  to  follow  them. 

“Captain,”  came  Bronson’s  chilly 
voice,  “just  where  do  you  think  you’re 
going?" 

“I’m  going  to  find  out  who  made  these 
tracks.  What  else?” 

“You’re  going  back  to  the  ship,”  he 
said.  His  head  shook  within  the  plasti- 
bubble  and  his  voice  came  through  the 
speaker  with  a hard,  electronic  edge 
upon  it.  “Those  footprints  will  be  inves- 
tigated by  the  guards.  At  the  proper 
time.  And  under  the  proper  circum- 
stances.” 

“For  Jupiter’s  sake,  Bronson — ” 

“That’s  all.  Captain,”  he  said. 

Della  had  no  expression.  She  didn’t 
even  seem  to  disapprove.  I looked 
at  her,  looked  away,  sighed,  shrugged, 
and  wondered  how  a gal  like  her  could 
possibly  fall  for  such  a stuffy  character 


138  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


as  Bronson.  Especially  with  somebody 
like  me  around.  Of  course  Bronson  is  a 
handsome  kind  of  an  egg,  I have  to  ad- 
mit, but  certainly  looks  aren’t  every- 
thing, and  if  I were  a gal  I’d  want  a 
man  with  a little  imagination  and  spunk. 
A man  who  liked  to  be  different. 

Well,  all  the  next  day  the  space  guards 
beat  the  bush  in  that  vicinity.  Rough 
boys,  they  were,  armed  with  Jenks 
nuclear  guns — the  weapons  that  were 
finally  agreed  upon  during  the  Age  of 
Wars  in  the  Twentieth  Century,  you’ll 
remember.  They  were  agreed  upon  be- 
cause they  could  kill  people  very  neatly 
and  efficiently  without  scorching  the 
landscape.  I didn’t  get  to  go  vdth  the 
space  guards;  I got  tied  up  working 
with  the  engineering  gang  when  the 
atom  mesh  control  developed  a bug. 

But  I saw  their  report  later,  and  it 
may  be  said  literally:  they  didn’t  find 
beans. 

Bronson  and  a few  others  began  to 
look  at  me  suspiciously,  and  I have  an 
idea  they  thought  that  not  only  did  I 
hide  my  own  space  suit  but  somehow 
faked  those  tracks  leading  into  the 
jungle.  I went  my  own  way — proud,  dig- 
nified, and  alone.  To  Mars  with  them. 

It  was  just  a few  days  later  that  the 
mild  hunger  hit  me.  For  more  of  that 
tender,  delicious  grass  shoot,  I mean.  I 
didn’t  recognize  it  as  a craving,  or  any- 
thing like  that — at  first  it  just  seemed 
to  me  that  it  would  be  nice  if  I could 
taste  the  stuff  again. 

Once  more  I wandered  away  from  the 
ship,  toward  the  jungle.  I forgot  my 
space-suit  again;  couldn’t  .see  that  it 
made  any  difference  anyway.  I didn’t 
wander  far  this  time,  I just  hung  around 
the  edge  of  the  foliage  and  picked  ten- 
drils for  myself.  They  were  superb.  They 
got  better  and  better.  I repeated  the 
performance  on  the  following  day,  and 
then  on  the  day  after  that.  A week  went 
by;  I was  having  daily  meals  on  the 
wonderful  Venusian  green  stuff.  No 
bulk  hunger  for  me,  by  Jupiter.  As  for 
the  others — the  change  in  them  was 
very  gradual.  . . . 

They  were  busy,  of  course,  constantly. 
They  were  cataloguing  every  pore, 


every  hair,  every  blackhead  on  the  face 
of  Venus,  and  the  microfilms  were  be- 
ginning to  .stack  high.  All  this  hard 
work  had  something  to  do  with  their 
weakening,  but  the  main  thing,  of 
course,  was  bulk  hunger.  That  was  the 
big  reason  everybody  started  to  lose 
weight  and  get  those  characteristic 
sunken,  droopy  eyes.  You’ve  seen  re- 
turned space  castaways  who  have  lived 
on  pills  and  concentrates;  you  know 
what  I mean.  Tired,  drawling  speech 
and  reactions  not  even  quick  enough  to 
make  a good  double-take. 

Happily,  I was  as  bright  and  fresh  as 
ever. 

Bronson  noticed  it  one  morning  and 
spoke  to  me  about  it.  We  were  lined  up 
with  the  rest  at  the  nourishment  table 
getting  our  breakfast  concentrates.  He 
eyed  me  suspiciously. 

"You  look  mighty  fresh  and  chipper. 
How  do  you  do  it?” 

"A  good  clean  life,”  I said  blandly. 
“Right  living,  right  thinking,  right — ” 

"Moon-juice,”  he  said. 

I shrugged. 

He  kept  eyeing  me.  "You  haven’t,  by 
any  chance,  got  a secret  cache  of  fresh 
milk  and  beefsteak  stowed  away  some- 
where, have  you  ?” 

"Mr.  Bronson,  please,”  I said,  with 
heavy  injury. 

"Or  maybe  you’ve  been  trying  out 
some  Venusian  vegetables?” 

"Now  why  would  I do  a thing  like 
thatr’ 

"I  don’t  know.  Unless  just  to  do  some- 
thing you  shouldn’t.”  His  look  began  to 
cast  itself  in  bronze.  “But  I warn  you — 
it’s  a dangerous  practice.  Della  has  only 
begun  to  analyze  the  plant  life  here. 
Some  of  the  cells  have  animal  character- 
istics. Some  she  can’t  figure  out  at  all. 
At  any  rate,  eating  the  stuff  might  be 
very  harmful.” 

“It  might.”  I smiled.  "And  then  again, 
it  might  not.  Sometimes  a fellow  has  to 
take  a chance  to  find  these  things  out.” 

He  looked  at  me  for  a long  time.  He 
blinked  his  cold,  grey  eyes  only  once  in 
that  whole  period.  He  moistened  his  lips. 

"I  think  maybe  you’d  better  come 
along  with  us  today,”  he  said.  "And 


THE  SALAD 

ttten  I can  keep  an  eye  on  you.” 

“Oome  along  where?" 

"We’ve  found  more  footprints.  It 
seems  pretty  clear  now  that  there  are 
some  kind  of  inhabitants  around  here. 
We're  going  after  them.” 

I grinned.  “Brotiier — wouldn’t  miss 
that  for  the  world.” 

“Don’t  be  too  cheerful  about  it.”  Bron- 
son didn’t  smile.  “You’re  coming  along 
because  I’m  not  letting  you  out  of  my 
sight  again.  And  I’m  warning  you — one 
thing  out  of  line,  and  you’ll  be  sum- 
marily and  severely  punished." 

“Aw,  rocket  gas,”  I said,  and  walked 
away. 

WELL,  as  it  turned  out,  he  wasn’t 
kidding.  About  keeping  me  in  his 
sight,  I mean.  Later,  as  the  group  of  us 
start^  to  cut  our  way  through  that 
Venusian  jungle,  I began  to  feel  like 
Bronson’s  pet  cocker  spaniel.  He 
wouldn’t  even  let  a twig  get  between  us. 

Which  was  something,  considering 
the  thickness  of  the  jungle.  Several 
husky  guards  led  the  way,  hacking  with 
bush  knives.  Only,  because  of  their  bulk 
hunger,  their  swings  were  weary  and 
ttie  going  was  slow.  They  made  a kind 
of  path  which  grew  together  again  by 
the  time  the  rear  of  the  caravan  came 
along.  Meanwhile,  the  heavy  air  and  the 
moisture  were  all  around  us,  making 
leaden  clubs  of  our  arms  and  legs. 

Then  there  was  the  silence.  The  thiek 
silence  which  gave  a flat,  dead  feeling 
to  the  senses  and  a kind  of  hollow  numb- 
ness to  the  insides. 

The  footprints  decided  our  course. 
All  found  so  far  seemed  to  head  due 
west.  That  might  mean  something,  or 
it  might  not.  At  any  rate,  the  lead  guard 
kept  his  solar  compass  pointed  that  way, 
and  we  followed.  Della,  who  was  march- 
ing near  the  rear,  pushed  forward  after 
a while.  She  went  right  past  me  and 
touched  Bronson’s  arm. 

“Dick—” 

“Hello,  Della.  What’s  the  trouble? 
You  look  as  though  you’ve  been  through 
a wringer.” 

She  smiled  wanly.  "I’ll  overlook  tiie 
fact  that  no  man  should  ever  make  a 


CITIZENS  1S» 

statement  like  that  to  a woman,  regard- 
less of  how  she  looks.  The  fact  is,  I /ad 
as  though  I’ve  been  through  a wringer. 
Or  worse.  I — I’m  afraid  I’m  giving  out, 
Dick.  Couldn’t  we  slow  the  pace  just  a 
little?” 

He  patted  her  hand.  “Of  course,  Della. 
Of  course.”  His  eyes  were  faintly  glassy. 
“Matter  of  fact,  it’s  getting  me,  too.  All 
of  us,  I think.  Maybe  we’d  better  take  a 
rest  before  we  push  on.  And  a few  nips 
of  energy  cake.” 

Della  sighed.  “That  stuff  again.  Wheif 
I get  back  I’m  going  to  eat  good,  solid, 
chewy  beefsteak  and  bowls  of  crisp, 
crunchy  salad  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
I’m  going  to — ” 

He  patted  her  hand  again  and  said, 
“Don’t  think  about  it.”  Then  he  gave  the 
orders  for  the  halt.  Everybody  flopped 
to  the  ground — ^you  could  hear  the  sighs 
of  relief  popping  all  around  like  milk- 
weed pods  in  the  fall. 

Bronson  looked  around  him  wearily 
and  said,  "Just  this  once  people,  I think 
w«  can  dispense  with  our  space  suits. 
We’ll  rest  a lot  better — ” 

He  didn’t  have  to  say  it  a second  time. 
In  fact,  he  didn’t  even  have  to  finish 
saying  it  a first  time.  Everybody  slipped 
from  the  cumbersome  things  and  flopped 
to  the  ground  again.  I took  just  long 
enough  to  pick  a spot  near  Della. 

A few  minutes  later  I noticed  that  she 
kept  staring  at  me  in  a peculiar  way. 
At  first  I thought  maybe  she  was  just 
admiring  me — waking  up  to  the  fact 
that  whereas  Dick  Bronson  is  handsome, 
I have  what  you  call  character  in  my 
face.  I smiled  back  pleasantly. 

"How  come,”  she  said  slowly,  “you’re 
not  as  knocked  out  as  the  rest  of  us  ?” 

I shrugged,  made  a little  gesture  and 
a little  laugh.  “Oh,  I don’t  know.  Maybe 
I just  don’t  worry  as  much.” 

She  held  her  steady  look  and  the  slow 
pacing  of  her  words  as  she  said  quietly, 
“You’ve  been  eating  Venusian  vege- 
tables.” 

“What  makes  you  say  that?” 

“For  one  thing,  the  fact  that  you  don’t 
seem  to  be  suffering  from  bulk  hunger. 
F<wr  another  thing — ” she  pointed — 
“your  face.  The  color  of  your  skin.” 


140  THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


“The  color  of  my  skin  ?”  I ran  finger- 
tips down  my  cheek. 

“It  has  a greenish  tinge.” 

“The  hell  it  has.” 

She  shrugged,  reached  into  a pocket, 
and  tossed  me  a compact.  She  said, 
“Look.” 

I opened  to  the  mirror  and  looked. 
I looked  for  a long  time,  and  frowned. 
It  did  look  sort  of  green — but  not 
enough,  it  seemed  to  me,  to  get  excited 
about.  I had  an  idea  it  wasn’t  the  color 
of  my  skin  at  all — ^just  the  reflection  of 
all  that  green  light  that  seemed  to  be 
everywhere  in  the  jungle. 

I handed  the  compact  back  to  Della 
and  started  to  say,  "A  mere  optical  illu- 
sion— ” 

Exactly  at  that  instant  all  Venusian 
hell  broke  loose. 

Now,  I’ve  got  to  tell  you  this  slowly, 
which  wasn’t  how  it  happened  at  all. 
Everything  came  with  a swooping  bang, 
but  in  the  space  of  that  moment  I could 
still  notice  details. 

First  of  all,  the  things  came  out  of 
the  jungle.  'They  came  from  all  sides. 
They  oozed  out.  That  was  because  they 
were  elastic  and  could  slip  through  and 
around  places  like  the  walking  plants 
I’d  seen.  Only  these  weren’t  exactly 
walking  plants;  they  were,  as  much  as 
anything,  plant-like  men.  Maybe  thirty 
or  forty  of  them.  I stared,  stupified,  as 
did  everyone  else.  I latched  my  stare  to 
the  nearest  thing,  the  one  that  came  at 
a sickening,  steady  pace  toward  Della 
and  me. 

Tall  as  a man,  it  was,  with  a body, 
a head,  two  arms,  two  legs.  But  it  was 
covered  from  head  to  foot  with  curled, 
matted  green  foliage.  The  limbs  were 
loose  and  flowing — with  only  the  sug- 
gestion of  joints  and  bones  in  the  right 
places.  Flowering  tendrils  grew  from 
the  ears. 

None  of  these  things  spoke  nor  made 
a noise  of  any  kind  beyond  a leafy  rus- 
tling as  they  moved.  But  the  way  they 
moved — slowly,  purposefully — ^told  us 
plenty. 

The  Jenks  nuclear  guns  started  to  fizz 
in  all  directions.  You  know  about  the 


Jenks  principle;  it  affects  only  mam- 
malian life  and  was  adopted  toward  the 
close  of  the  Age  of  Wars  so  that  forests 
and  parks  and  fields  of  grain  would  be 
spared.  Fat  lot  of  good  it  did  with  these 
green  characters — ^men,  plants,  what- 
ever they  were. 

A guard  stepped  between  me  and  the 
nearest  plant-man,  leveled  his  pistol  and 
fizzed  it.  He  held  the  trigger  down,  kept 
it  down.  The  invisible  rays  went  right 
through  the  plant^man.  No  damage 
whatsoever.  The  plant-man  kept  corn- 
coming.  The  guard  finally  threw  the 
pistol  into  his  face,  then  yanked  the 
bush  knife  from  its  scabbard.  He  start- 
ed to  swing.  . . . 

He  wasn’t  fast  enough.  I could  see 
why.  I could  see  that  this  was  going  to 
be  the  trouble  with  everybody  in  the 
group — they  just  wouldn’t  be  quick 
enough  on  the  uptake  because  they 
were  all  suffering  from  bulk  hunger! 

The  plant-man’s  tendril-like  arms 
came  out,  curled  themselves  in  a whip- 
'lash  circle  about  the  guard’s  neck  and 
pulled  tight.  His  scream  was  choked  off. 
His  face  turned  red,  then  pale.  He  tore 
at  the  thing’s  foliage  with  his  hands  and 
his  movements  became  weaker  and 
weaker. 

“Pete!” 

That  was  Della’s  voice,  cutting  into 
my  jelled  state  of  horror.  I turned  and 
looked  at  her.  I was  still  in  a kind  of 
daze.  Her  face  was  oyster-white,  and 
her  grey  eyes  were  searching  mine. 

“It’s — it’s  up  to  you,  now,”  she  said. 
"You’re  the  only  one  strong  enough — ” 

That  snapped  me  out  of  it.  She  was 
right.  I was  the  only  one  who’d  been 
getting  any  green  vegetables,  any  bulk. 
That  scientific,  concentrated  diet  is  fine, 
but  real  food  still  works  better.  I leaped 
forward  and  grabbed  the  guard’s  fallen 
bush  knife. 

Now  you  know  by  now  that  I don’t 
like  to  brag  unnecessarily,  but  I must 
say  that  in  the  next  few  moments  I was 
— well,  magnificent.  The  only  word  for 
it;  magnificent.  I had  plenty  of  pep,  and 
I’m  a pretty  healthy,  pretty  rough  cus- 
tomer to  begin  with.  Before  I stepped  in 
I took  one  swift  gander  at  the  overall 


THB  SALAD  CITIZENS  141 


situation.  The  plant  men  had  just  about 
everybody  in  the  group  in  their  tendrils 
and  they  were  starting  in  on  some 
wholesale  strangulation. 

I jumped;  I swung;  I slashed.  I was 
all  over  the  place  with  that  bush  Icnife. 
I hacked  those  verdant  characters  into 
a thousand  pieces.  None  made  any  noise 
— they  bled  sap  instead  of  blood,  and, 
like  plants,  they  didn’t  exactly  die— they 
would  have  to  wilt  first.  They  didn’t 
even  fall  unless  I cut  their  trunk-like 
legs  from  under  them.  They  couldn’t 
have  had  any  feeling,  as  we  know  it. 

I won’t  dwell  on  how  many  I hacked. 
’They  must  have  had  some  kind  of  dim 
intelligence ; they  saw  after  a while  that 
I was  just  too  much  for  them,  and  they 
began  to  fall  back.  The  ones  who  could 
still  move  melted  into  the  foliage. 

Bronson  picked  himself  up.  He  had 
fallen  after  being  nearly  choked  to 
death  by  one  of  the  animated  asparagus. 
He  stood  there,  chest  heaving,  handsome 
profile  high,  and  between  breaths  he 
managed  to  gasp  out  an  order, 

“B-back!  Back  to  the  ship  every- 
body!” 

I looked  at  him,  and  grinned  impu- 
dently. I just  wanted  him  to  know  that 
it  ought  to  be  pretty  clear  by  now  who 
was  the  real  hero  of  this  thing. 

I walked  right  past  him  to  where 
Della  stood.  She  was  swaying  a little, 
and  I took  her  arm.  She  let  me.  She 
smiled,  “Thanks,”  and  came  along  as  I 
led  her. 

“Della,  baby,”  I said,  pushing  back 
through  the  matted  jungle  toward  the 
ship,  “you  guessed  right  about  my  eat- 
ing some  of  the  local  lettuce.  And  if  I 
hadn’t  done  it,  I wouldn’t  have  had  the 
strength  to  pull  us  out  of  this  tough 
spot — ” 

She  was  staring  at  me  queerly. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  I asked. 

She  brought  her  hand  from  her  side. 
There  was  a scrap  of  khaki  cloth  in  it. 


She  said,  in  a kind  of  hollow  voice: 

“This  came  off  one  of  tiie  plant  men 
while  I was  struggling  with  him." 

I took  it  and  frowned  at  it.  It  bore 
embroidered  black  letters  which  said: 
FIRST  VENUSIAN  EXPE.  It  was  part 
of  a pocket.  Realization  washed  over  me 
slowly,  and  coldly. 

“Those — those  things,"  I said.  “Those 
plant-men.  Do  you  suppose  they  were — " 

“Yes,"  said  Della.  “They  were  the 
men  of  the  First  Expedition  here.  But 
they’re  not  men  any  more.  They’re 
plants.  Some  are  completely  changed; 
some  are  now  true  Venusians.  Plants. 
Those  with  some  animal  left  attacked  us 
in  a dumb,  instinctive  way.” 

“But  how  did  they  get  that  way? 
What  made  them  turn  into  plants?” 

Now  she  looked  at  me  more  queerly 
than  ever.  “On  Venus,  when  you  say 
‘you  are  what  you  eati,  you  really  mean 
it.” 

I said,  “Huhr 

She  handed  me  her  compact  again. 
Still  puzzled,  I opened  it  and  looked  at 
myself.  I didn’t  notice  anything  unusual 
right  away.  I saw  my  square-set,  bat- 
tered, not  unpleasant  mug  and  my  dark 
brows;  the  break  in  my  nose  and  the 
two  little  scars  on  my  chin  which  I have 
been  told  give  me  a dashing,  romantic 
effect — 

And  then  I saw  my  ears. 

My  brows  exploded  upward.  My  eyes 
widened.  I thrust  my  head  forward,  let 
my  lower  jaw  hang,  and  stared,  and 
stared,  and  stared  into  that  mirror.  I 
spoke,  and  my  voice  seemed  to  come 
from  a million  miles  out  in  space. 

“Well,”  I said,  “I'm  the  guy  who  likes 
to  be  different  . . ." 

“Yes,"  said  Della.  She  shuddered  as 
she  said  it. 

I tried  tugging,  but  it  was  painful. 
The  little  green  tendrils  starting  to 
grow  out  of  my  ears  were  there  to 
stay  .... 


IN  CAVERNS  BELOW,  a full-length  novel  of  subterroneon  adventure  by 
Stonton  A.  Coblentx — BEYOND  THE  STAR  CURTAIN,  o novelet  of 
the  future  by  Garth  Bentley — and  many  other  outstanding  stories 
in  the  Fall  FANTASTIC  STORY  QUARTERLY— 
just  out,  25c  everywhere! 


THE  READER  SPEAKS 

(Continued  from  page  9) 


off  across  incredibly  wild  and  desolate 
country  toward  the  Tost  Citadel,  whose  lo- 
cation has  been  revealed  to  him  under  the 
spell  of  the  priests. 

Pursuit  is  quick  and  relentless  and  there 
is  always  the  possibility  of  treason  among 
the  fleeing  conspirators,  of  frozen  death 
over  the  dark  rim  of  the  world,  of  capture 
and  slaughter  at  the  hands  of  barbaric 
tribes. 

In  leading  up  to  her  tremendous  climax 
Miss  Brackett  has  given  us  one  of  her 
finest  long  stories — replete  with  all  the 
magic  of  which  she  is  such  a complete  mas- 
ter. THE  CITADEL  OF  LOST  AGES 
makes  a grand  lead  for  our  December  issue. 

By  way  of  something  extremely  special 
in  the  thought-provoking  category  we  shall 
be  offering  THE  NEW  REALITY,  a novelet 
by  Charles  L . Harness,  whose  FLIGHT 
INTO  YESTERDAY,  a novel  which  ran 
last  year  in  our  companion  magazine, 
STARTLING  STORIES,  is  still  being 
talked  about  in  stf  circles. 

Mr.  Harness,  in  a superb  imaginative 
flight,  takes  us  next  issue  into  a near  fu- 
ture where  science  and  scientific  logic  pretty 
much  control  the  world  through  a Bureau 
of  Censors,  headed  by  the  amazing  “E,” 
but  in  a generally  benevolent  and  enlight- 
ened way. 

It  is  Prentiss,  one  of  the  Bureau’s  top 
trouble  shooters,  who  discovers  the  incred- 
ible menace  represented  by  Professor  Luce 
and  his  experiments  with  the  photon.  This 
Lucean  menace  represents  something  new 
(to  us,  at  any  rate)  in  stf  in  both  aim  and 
method. 

The  aim  is  to  reduce  the  entire  universe 
to  its  elemental  core — ^the  method  to  shat- 
ter the  entire  pattern  of  man-made  reality 
through  the  detonation  of  a single  photon, 
which  will  have  on  the  whole  the  effect  of 
removal  of  a stone  from  an  arch. 

How  Prentiss,  abetted  by  E although  hin- 
dered by  the  usually  unimaginative  Bureau, 
digs  out  the  nature  of  the  Lucean  threat, 
how  he  discovers  its  ultimate  meaning,  the 
desperate  steps  he  and  E and  others  take  to 
forestall  its  imminent  execution,  make  this 
one  of  the  finest  suspense  stories  we  have 
ever  read  in  the  field.  It  is  also  a story 
which  will  have  most  of  you  wondering  a 
long  time  after  it  is  finished — and  surely 
this  is  one  of  the  basic  purposes  of  a maga- 
zine entitled  THRILLING  WONDER 
STORIES. 


Cleve  Cartmill,  recently  of  the  Space  Sal- 
vage series  in  these  pages,  undertakes  an- 
other trouble-ridden  jaunt  into  the  so-called 
ether  in  CAPTAIN  FAMINE,  our  third  De- 
cember long  story.  It  is,  in  fact,  as  true  a 
space  story  as  we  have  read — as  much  so  as 
a fine  sea  story  is  of  the  sea. 

In  the  saga  of  what  is  supposed  to  be  the 
last  voyage  of  the  stout  rescue-ship  Talis- 
man, he  plumbs  the  curious  and  deep-seated 
affection  which  develops  between  veteran 
crewmen  and  the  vessel  they  have  come  to 
regard  and  trust  as  their  home. 

Bolstered  with  strong  human  conflict  and 
with  space-mechanics  envisioned  with  the 
reality  of  which  Mr.  Cartmill  is  such  a mas- 
ter, CAPTAIN  FAMINE  takes  the  reader 
right  out  beyond  the  atmosphere  where  the 
sky  is  black  and  the  million  suns  of  the 
heavens  blaze  with  unwinking  eyes.  A great 
journey  in  a great  ship. 

As  usual,  although  summer  will  of  course 
be  over,  we  shall  have  our  shorts  with  us — 
and  judging  by  recent  purchases  for  inven- 
tory their  level  should  be  at  least  as  high 
as  in  recent  issues.  And  the  usual  trio  of 
departmental  features  will  be  on  hand  with 
ye  Ed  officiating  and  mangling  as  usual. 

With  Brackett,  Harness  and  Cartmill 
heading  the  lineup  it  looks  mighty  prom- 
ising! 


LETTERS  FROM  OUR  READERS 

WE  HAVE  another  one  of  those  fran- 
tic missives  with  which  to  get  the 
old  tesseract  rolling.  This  time  it  is — 

LAY  OFF— PLEASEI 
by  Robert  Birnboum 

Dear  Ed:  STOPI  I i I I i DON'T  print  that  plea  that  was 
$ant  to  you  by  ($upposedlv)  mel  I Have  )u$t  learned  that  my 
friend  tent  it  at  a pracbcal  ioke.  Evenr  word  about  my 
health  and  my  requett  it  a liel — 209  Ford  Street,  Brooklyn  29, 
New  York. 

Always  glad  to  oblige,  Robert.  However, 
your  (supposedly)  friend  must  have  run 
more  of  a spoof  than  you  figured.  We  never 
got  the  (supposedly)  plea. 

DOES  ANYBODY  CARE? 
by  Mrs.  L.  R.  Foos 

Dear  Sir:  What  does  it  matter  if  the  edget  are  trimmed 
or  untrimmed?  Does  anybody  really  care  if  the  pictures  are 
good  or  bad?  Is  it  important  that  a good  many  of  us  don't 
nke  lurid  term  and  Perns  on  covert?  How  many  of  us 
really  notice?  I rather  think  that  there  are  a good  many 
others  like  mo  and  my  spouse  who  only  core  if  tho  stories 
are  good  or  bad.  We  read  and  read  and  often  reread.  We 
boy  one  arid  all  as  they  appear  on  the  stands  and  we,  the 


iMfwrUing  mHlions.  realize  that  the  editors  buy  the  be«t 
they  can  get.— ^21  Spring  Street,  Walla  Walla,  WaiKmgton. 

Mrs.  Foos,  we  thaok  you  in  Bea  Lillie 
fashion  from  the  bottom  (slap)  of  our  heart 
(sigh).  If  you’re  right  about  those  “mil- 
lions” we’re  in  clover. 

FANTAFAN 


ridden  by  the  umpire,  v/ho  seemed  invari- 
ably to  step  in  and  put  a halt  to  the  pro- 
ceedings just  when  they  showed  some  prom- 
ise of  a bit  of  action.  It  was  reminiscent 
of  on-thc-level  wrestling  in  spectator  dull- 
ness. 

Personally,  we’ll  stick  Vo  Bradbury  and 
the  bazooka. 


by  J.  T.  OHver 

D«<f  Editor:  rour  SUNDAY  IS  3,000  YEARS  AWAY  took 
first  place  in  the  Jt^  issge,  with  COFFINS  FOR  MARS  run- 
ning second.  Jones  is  a very  good  writer  when  he  tries.  I'm 
looking  forward  to  Kuttnar  in  the  August  ish.  What's  hap- 
pened to  him  lately?  Has  he  slowed  up  or  iusf  Invented  some 
new  pen  nenries? 

I'd  tike  very  much  to  see  TWS  bring  out  a mag  for  new 
fantasy  stories.  Stf  is  fine  stuff  but  even  the  best  of  things 
needs  a bit  of  variety  to  brighten  It  up.  Seems  that  it 
would  be  a sound  business  venture.— 712  32nd  Street,  Colum- 
bus, Georgia. 

Thanks  for  comment  on  the  June  edi- 
tion, J.  T.  As  for  your  fantasy  request  it 
seems  unlikely  at  present.  But  we  are  never 
averse  to  running  a certain  amount  of  fan- 
tasy in  TWS  and  SS  if  we  like  it  well 
enough.  SUNDAY,  for  instance,  in  the 
aforementioned  June  issue,  was  basically 
a fantasy.  As  have  been  many  others  we 
have  printed,  including  Norman  Daniels’ 
THE  LADY  IS  A WITCH  in  SS  a few 
months  back.  All  we  ask  is  a certain  level 
o£  originality,  credibility  and  entertain- 
ment value. 


EN  GARDE! 
by  Stanton  V.  Dawns 

Deor  Sir:  The  recent  remerks  on  fencing  In  lifereiure  mede 
by  your  readers  interest  me  greatly.  I consider  it  unfortunate 
that  they  think  sword  pley  primitive.  Indeed,  fencing  is  the 
only  truly  scientific  form  of  combet  existing  todey. 

I agree  that  fencing  Is  impractical  in  the  savage  age  we 
live  in  today-^n  age  of  lurking  kiliert  and  death  by  remote 
control — but  in  the  future,  if  men  enlightened  and  high  in 
cuiture  find  they  MUST  ught,  they  will  do  brilliantly  end 
artisticdtly  in  the  infinite  infricata  strategy  of  the  sword. 

If  you  readers  will  take  note  they  will  find  that  fencing 
is  being  added  to  the  curriculum  of  many  American  high 
schools  and  is  being  recognized  more  and  more  as  the  ulti- 
mate sport — the  only  true  exercise  to  utilize  every  faculty 
of  a man  simuttaneously.  No  sport  is  as  fast  and  as  grueling 
as  fencing.  Beside  it  football  and  baseball  look  like  checkers. 

To  compare  fencing  and  combat  by  sharp-edged  weapons 
to  modem  warfare  Is  to  compare  chess  with  canasta. 

Before  I close  I would  like  to  say  a word  about  that 
abominable  mimic,  Bradbury,  whose  lesser  works  pace 
through  your  publication  with  flowing  hair,  flowing  tie  and 
raven -on-shoulder. 

I,  like  most  people,  can  taka  cocaine-soakod  daisies  of 
Edgar  Allen  Poe  only  in  small  doses.  But  to  see  the  style 
of  this  master  of  the  bizarre  aped  by  Mr.  Bradbury  fills  me 
with  dipjust.  In  the  name  of  Science  Fiction  and  good  teste, 
I heartily  wish  you  would  trot  him  back  where  he  belongs.— 
L'Ecote  de  Charme.  1290  Euclid  Ave.,  Cleveland.  Ohio. 

As  an  instructor  of  fencing,  M.  Downs, 
we  respect  your  remarks  anent  the  beau- 
ties and  intricacies  of  sword  play  for  what 
they  are  worth.  And  as  a reader,  M.  Downs, 
we  respect  your  comments  on  R.B.  as  ex- 
pressing your  own  inviolable  opinion. 

We  watched  a good  deal  of  fencing  in  the 
gymnasia  of  our  school  and  college,  how- 
ever, and  found  it  a sport  (?)  interminably 


'more  sword  play 

by  Joe  Gibson 

Wondar  Boy:  Sho'  hata  to  say  this.  I raatly  do.  and  prob- 
ably nobody  will  agrae  with  me.  but  out  of  a genaraHy 
poor  issue  (iWS-June,  *S0)  it  would  seam  that  THE  STRANG- 
EST BEDFELLOWS  rated  tops.  Also,  it  was  the  only  story 
what's-his-nama  with  the  Nipponese  tapestiy  style  could  really 
illustrate — tho  a Finlay  would  have  baan  interesting. 

Next,  and  I'm  awfly  sorry  about  this,  comes  NO  HIDING 
PLACE.  And  the  only  reason  these  two  yams  stand  out  is 
that  they  hefted  their  bootstraps  and  kept  going  while  the 
others  stumbled  around  trying  to  find  themselves. 

On  the  other  hand,  SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILE- 
YEARS  AWAY  prompted  me  to  spend  a dime  for  a beer  to 
cry  into.  Those  poor,  poor  kids,  George  and  Rena.  Now,  K 
Ray  Jonas  will  only  tackle  the  story  implied  in  that  contents 
page  error— SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILES  AWAY- 
ril  bat  he'd  have  somefhingl  Consider  the  Elnstein-Fitsgerald 
space-time  implications  of  moving  Sunday  three  thousaed 
miles  away — and  keeping  it  therel  Lessee,  umere'd  I put  tbet 
slide-rule.  . . . 

And  COFFINS  TO  MARS  iust  wasn’t  agreeable.  First,  be- 
cause the  assumed  space  nostalgia  made  tittle  sense.  Vest 
deep  caverns  just  ainH  claustri^hobic  unless  you're  uo  acute 
case  and  waking  up^  any  morning  on  a battlefield  in  Europe 
or  the  South  Pecific  is  too  much  ekin  to  wekli^  up  on  another 
planet — you  sometinses  think  about  being  fiw.  fen,  fift^n 
thousena  miles  from  home  and  how  youVe  maybe  hanging 
upside*down  or  at  leost  sticking  sideways  from  the  home- 
town verticet.  But  it  don't  meke  you  any  more  nutty  than 
you  already  are. 

Second,  because  rejuvenation  ot  the  aged  isn't  likely  to 
work  that  way-^and  it  it  does,  few  pe<>pre  over  eighty  are 
likely  to  want  it.  The  symptoms  of  senility  In  the  hero  aed 
heroine  indicate  worn-out  tissues,  not  tired  minds,  as  anyone 
should  realize  with  but  a moment's  reflection.  Husky  cen- 
tenarians are  much  more  inclined  to  be  shrewd,  cunning,  end 
good  executives. 

The  hypothesis  seems  much  more  in  favor  of  youngstoM 
taking  to  the  outer  worlds  simply  to  get  away  from  their  old 
man — which  might  have  been  a lot  better  story,  even  from 
the  old  man's  point  of  view.  At  any  rate,  the  oidtimers  ere 
far  more  likely  to  run  things  In  any  Immortal  society.  You 
gotta  drop  the  "t"  for  the  youngsters. 

In  The  Reader  Speaks,  everybody  seems  to  be  chasing 
everybody  else  around  with  gleaming  swords.  Calm,  calm, 
gentlemenl  And  iadiesi  Quiet  down,  now — this  matter  should 
be  considered  obiectivelyi  First,  consider  swords  as  a class 
Now,  the  bMt  sword  you  can  handle  is  a stubby  two-foot 
job  with  a strong,  double-edged  blade.  Just  long  enou^ 
and  heavy  enough  to  pack  a good  hefly  swing  and  ugly 
enough  to  do  a good  joo.  even  tnrough  thick  winter  clothing, 
it's  better  than  a knim  because  knife-fighting  sorrietimes  in- 
volves  dangerous  wrassling  and  throwing  knivos  is  too  un- 
predictable. And  it's  better  than  a spear  because  you  can 
still  use  it  in  close  quarters.  For  the  seme  reason  it's  better 
than  an  axe. 

But  suppose  everybody  starts  wearing  chain-mail  and  breast- 

f>lates  and  other  assorted  lunk?  Then,  my  lads,  you  need  a 
onger  sword  with  e heevter  blade  and  a heftier  swing.  And 
swing  at  the  head,  for  if  you  miss  you'll  likely  whack  open  a 
shoulder. 

But  suppose  somebody  starts  using  longbows  and  knocking 
off  us  armored  gentlemen  before  we  can  gat  within  swinging 
distance?  Then,  buckos.  we  must  turn  to  stealth  and  creeping 
thru  the  wild  wood  and  dashing  forward  on  horseback  and 
things  they  call  tactics.  And.  since  rvobody  wears  |unk  any 
mora,  we  can  revert  back  to  the  lighter  sword. 

But  waiti  Some  blighter  has  learned  that  one  can  parry 
the  other's  sword  and  counter-thnistl  Methinkt  this  calls  for 
a longar  sword,  but  still  tight  and  easily  managed.  Rapiers 
make  nice  accoutrements  for  a gentleman's  evening  dress. 
And  have  you  Jtaard,  the  longbows  am  being  replaced  wttii 
musketry?  Verity,  and  what  wouldst  bethink  next? 

And  so  it  goes.  But  then,  what's  this?  Pistols?  Hand-waap- 
oflt,  you  say— t^  name  was  strange.  Pistols,  it  Isl  And— 
here,  what's  this?  Revolvers,  bless  mel  Six  charges  to  the 
cylinder.  Ripping,  wot?  And  that  chap  Gatling  has  some- 
thing or  other.  An,  the  sword  is  dead.  How's  the  war  going 
this  morning?  Have  you  heard,  those  American  Marinas  fought 
thru  the  Argonne  wood  with  fixed  bayonetsi  DeviH  at  parry- 


and'llmi^,  th«  reports  say!  Tke  Boches  were  terrified!  Came 
out  of  the  morning  mists  l!he  silent  SatansI  But  that  Maxim 
really  gave  us  something.  And  now,  this  Thompson. 

For  mfiltration,  there's  nothing  like  a knife.  The  U.  S. 
Rangers  and  British  Commandos  recommend  it  particularly 
for  the  surprise  assault.  The  CommarKlo  with  a knife  is  fen 
times  deadlier  than  a man  with  an  automatic  rifle. 

Barring  long-range  atomic  warfare  and  going  on  to  the 
planets,  there ^s  a handy  little  gadget  for  quick  use  against 
alien  carnivores.  Like  an  ordinary  pistol  with  magazine  dip 
in  the  handle  but  in  place  of  bolt  and  recoil  assembly  and 
barrel  tiny  rocket  projectiles  are  fed  into  a tittle  tube  run- 
ning past  the  back  of  the  right  hand.  Must  be  careful  i^t 
to  hold  it  in  front  of  you  because  of  the  backflash.  The  tiny 
rockets  have  warheads  packed  with  powerful  explosive.  Neat 
gadgets  to  whip  from  your  holster  when  something  big  and 
awful  comes  charging  down  on  you.  Messy  things  at  dose 
quarters  tho.  Carrv  an  ordinary  pistol  for  that.  Except  in 
^acecraft,  where  slugs  would  ricochet  around  uncomfortably. 
You  need  something  else  to  kill  a man  inside  a spaceship. 

Say,  a good  light  sword  that  you  can  handle  easily,  yet 
ugly  enough  to  do  a good  iob. 

Of  course,  if  all  depends.  On  whether  you  want  to  kill 
anyone  in  a spaceship,  that  is.  Someone  can  probably  think 
of  a reason. 

They  usually  do. 

One  other  note  of  madness  is  your  lambasting  of  Jakes' 
gallery  of  "heroes"— tho  I agree  with  you  completely.  Bet 
some  poor  tout  is  sure  to  upbraid  you  for  cynically  tearing 
down  America's  "great"  legends.  h>r  that  reason  I think 
you  should've  attempted,  at  feast,  to  name  a few  real  heroes. 
Out  ol  the  Revolution  we  might  pick  that  fellow  who  made 
history's  first  submarine  attack  on  an  enemy  warship  single- 
handed.  Buffalo  Bill  was  considered  something  of  a show-off, 
which  he  was,  but  old  Jim  Bridger  wasn't  so  bad  a hand.  Sit- 
ting Bull  was  a mad-hatter  alongside  Crazy  Horse,  H I /ecall — 
it’s  been  so  long,  you  see — but  along  about  that  same  time 
a young  feller  name  of  Wyatt  Earp  had  a sure-fire  way  of 
hunting  buffalo. 

Later,  his  gun  talent  could've  made  him  a deadly  killer  if 
he’d  been  as  hotheaded  as^  say,  Wild  Bill  Hickok,  bet  he 
was  pretty  much  of  a solid  crtiien.  Used  that  talent  sparingly, 
even  against  trigger-happy  gunmen.  He'd  walk  up  behind  'em. 
back  in  Dodge,  silent  and  catlike,  bash  'em  over  the  head 
with  a sixgun  that  had  a 12-inch  barrel,  disarm  'em  and  drag 
'em  off  to  iail. 

Nothing  much  really  happened  around  Dodge  City,  Abi- 
lene, Santa  Fe  and  the  Comstock  Lode,  which  Jakes  mentions, 
except  a few  hombres  got  killed.  Bet  take  places  tike  Fort 
Pitt,  now.  Of  later  St.  Joe  and  Independence,  or  earlier 
Taos,  Mexico  City  and  Montreal,  the  trappers'  route  or 
Seattle  when  Russia  had  Alaska  or  'Frisco  after  the  Gold 
Rush  or  Kansas  City  and  Chicago  during  ffie  Gay  Nineties. 
Or  old  New  Orlearvs  during  Lafitte's  day,  when  every  night 
was  a Mardi  Gras,  or  Little  Old  New  York  when  show  biz 
was  vaudeville. 

Hmm?  Why  dent  yoe  youngsters  take  a running  H*mp  for 
Marsi — 7A  Kensington  Ave.,  Jersey  City  4,  N.  J. 

As  usual,  Joe,  you’ve  got  us  sweating 
hemoglobin.  We  first  take  issue  with  your 
bleat  anent  Ray  Gallun’s  COFFINS  FOR 
MARS.  You  didn’t  like  the  story — edeay, 
that’s  your  business,  or  should  we  say  la- 
mentable lack  of  taste.  Chacun  a son  goute, 
we  always  say  after  carefully  wrapping  our 
big  toe  in  flannel  and  resting  it  on  a has- 
sock or  some  other  form  of  Russian  horse- 
man. 

You  remark  that  “rejuvenation  of  the 
aged  isn’t  likely  to  work  that  way’’ — there- 
by assailing  a basic  tenet  of  stf.  Maybe  it 
isn’t  likely  to  work  that  way — or  maybe  it 
isn’t  likely  to  work  any  way — ^but  the  author 
has  suggested  that  it  has  and  built  a pretty 
credible  yam  upon  it.  He  could  probably 
have  used  fifty  other  methods  and  done  the 
same  but  this  is  the  one  he  wished  to  try 
and  it  was  all  right  with  us. 

And  what’s  this  about  “dashing  for- 
ward on  horseback  and  things  they  call 
tactics’’?  Did  you  ever  dash  forth  on  a 
tactic? 


Joe,  we’re  surprised! 

As  for  the  submarine  inventor.  Broth- 
er Bushnell  was  not  exactly  a hero  in  the 
epic  sense.  He  was  that  American  phe- 
nomenon, a gadgeteer  so  hepped  up  about 
proving  the  worth  of  his  gadget  that  we 
suspect  he  gave  little  thought  to  the  risks 
he  was  running  when  he  bobbed  about 
under  the  surface  of  New  York  harbor 
in  his  fruitless  attempt  to  sink  H.M.S. 
Eagle  off  Governor’s  Island  by  attaching 
a torpedo  to  her  hull  via  a worm-screw. 

We  have  an  amusing  Jim  Bridger  story 
due  in  a soon-to-appear  issue  of  TWS  or 
SS  (it  may  have  seen  print  by  this  time) 
and  as  for  Wyatt  Earp,  there  are  several 
schools  of  thought  lying  around  as  to 
just  how  solid  a citizen  he  was.  And  we 
do  mean  “lying”  around.  You  can  have 
your  old  Crazy  Horse — we  heard  confi- 
dentially that  he  almost  never  took  a 
bath. 

See  you  on  Mars — you  and  Ray  B. 

STRAIGHT  TO  YE  OLDE  POINT 
by  Perdito  Lilly 

Dear  Ed:  To  come  straight  to  ye  olde  point,  my  motiva 
for  writing  this  letter  is  quite  frankly  to  take  advantage  of 
your  benevolent  good  nature  and  the  circulation  of  your 
magazines  to  make  a plea  to  the  public  which  Is  str»ctly 
for  my  own  benefit. 

My  plea  Is  this — is  there  somewhere  in  fan<iom  another 
femme  fan  who  desperately  wants  to  go  to  the  Norwescon 
but  whose  Finances  are  not  only  scanty  but  hard  to  come  by? 
If  so,  would  that  femme  fan  care  to  share  hotel  expenses 
with  another  fanne  in  the  same  situation?  I am  18  years 
old,  five  feet  six  Inches  tall,  have  brown  hair  and  eyes, 
promise  to  keep  my  somewhat  uneven  temperament  as  sweet 
as  possible — and  i have  never  been  in  fail  or  away  from 
home. 

If  you're  interested,  write  to  me.  If  1 get  more  than  one 
or  two  replies  I'll  refer  you  to  one  of  the  other  surplus  gals 
who  answer.  In  fact.  I'll  be  glad  to  set  up  a sort  of  tempo- 
rary bureau  for  the  purpose  of  helping  fans  find  share-the-eu- 

Krvse  transportation  and  roommates  tf  anyone  would  care  to 
ve  me  do  it. 

Well,  thanks  a million,  Ed,  for  lotting  rr>e  take  up  youi 
valuable  time  and  space.  Sometime,  when  I'm  in  a more 
constructive  mood,  rit  be  glad  to  present  mv  Invaluable 
opinions  of  vour  incomparable  magazines.— MI69  Kfonte  Vista, 
Detroit,  Michigan. 

We  hope  you  have  time  to  make  connec- 
tions as  the  result  of  this  letter’s  appear- 
ance, Perdita.  It  just  missed  getting  in  un- 
der the  wire  for  our  last  issue,  but  there 
is  still  roughly  a month’s  grace. 

In  case  anyone  doesn’t  know,  this  year’s 
World  Science  Fiction  Convention,  the 
NORWESCON,  will  take  place  over  Labor 
Day  week  end  in  Portland,  Oregon,  and 
promises  to  be  an  exciting  eind  well-man- 
aged affair.  For  information,  write  Don- 
ald B.  Day,  Norwescon  Chairman,  at  Box 
No.  8617,  Portland  7,  Oregon.  For  informa- 
tion and  Norwescon  membership,  enclose  a 
dollar  with  your  letter. 

This  will  be  the  last  call  for  the  Norwes- 
con, so  better  get  aboard  now. 

144 


FROM  AN  fRISH  AFRICAN 
1>y  B.  O'Gorman 

Dear  Ed:  Hope  I don't  bungle  but  thi<  is  my  first  letter 
^ an  sif  'meg  even  though  1 liave  been  reeding  them  (<whea 
I couW  9et  tMm)  since  I was  L2  y^ars  young  (20  years  age). 

I want  your  readers,  tf  they  would  be  so  generous,  to  pass 
on  to  me  ANY  stf  mags  they  spare,  when  ttiey  have 
done  wtth  them.  Because  we  have  Currency  & Import  control 
I cannot  buy  them  here  now  or  send  you  any  money  for 
ttwm.  But  if  eny  your  readers  arc  interested  in  South 
African  stamps  or  snaps  or  even  mags,  I shall  be  glad  to 
aend  them  'in  eicchange.  i promise  tow  to  answer  all  tetters 
i may  receive  as  promptly  as  1 can. 

And  now  tet  me  say  how  much  I enjoyed  TH€  LUftE  OF 
POLARIS.  COLO  WAH.  BACKWARD  O TtW£.  THE  OTHER 
WORLD.  KING  OF  THIEVES  and  of  course  THE  ULTIMATE 
CATALYST.  These  were  -in  the  October  and  November  (It49) 
4«aes  of  TWS  and  SS,  which  ere  the  latest  we've  hed  there.— 
*12  Ella  Street.  Bloemfontein.  South  Africa. 

Ella  Street,  eh?  Sounds  as  if  someone  had 
cut  the  “D”  out  of  Perry  Mason’a  ever- 
faithful  secretary.  All  the  same  we  hope 
you  get  the  results  you  hope  for  from  the 
appearance  of  your  letter  in  the  above  space, 
Paddy. 


SHADRACK 
by  Shelby  Vick 

Dear  Ab— Shent  tor  Abednaga.  StJH  sticking  to  BibWcal 
names.  Will  find  an  appropriate  one  for  you  eventuaHy.  And 
it  wenH  be  EdrtoH  I canH^  personaily  see  arvy  reason  Tor  you 
te  hide  your  name.  I cm  think  of  one  mag  that  I wet/ld 
^derstand  if  the  editor  hid  behind  anonymitv-^nd  hie  doesn't! 
n Ire's  io  brave,  why  not  you? 

Thera  was  certainly  nothing  in  the  June  issue  to  be  ashamed 
olf— unless  it  was  the  cover,  but  you  must  be  used  te  Sergey 
by  now.  I do  wish  you  would  get  more  'Lawrence  and  Finlay 
(and  I Uke  AstarHo)  but  the  qualrty  of  the  stories— well, 
there  is  only  one  I have  much  of  a gnpe  aboi/t — COFFINS 
TO  MARS.  Ray  shoulda  known  better. 

Stories  about  old  people  don’t  generally  ge  good  in  a mag 
slanted  to  middle-age  and  below  (way  below,  I might  add). 
The  end  of  It  -was  good  but  It  started  off  cheap.  The  char- 
acters weren't  convincing.  Everything  seemed  to  happen  too 
Conveniently. 

SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILES  AWAY  smacked 
of  the  trilogy  you  reoentty  published  by  Jonas,  leaning  it 
was  good. 

NO  HIDING  PLACE:  Not  NO!  Cleveland  mv  boy,  haw 
could  you!  Please  sey  It  ain't  so!  Jake,  come  pack!  ‘Don't 
leave  us  now!  But  (sob)  I fear  there  is  no  rescuing  him.  'Die 
indications  point  too  surely  towards  (shudder)  marriage.  And 
what  is  generally  called  the  Ha;^  Ending.  Oh,  well — I'll 
s^obobiy  like  an/thing  else  that  Cleve  turns  out.  And  you 
lust  'refund  to  -ke^  the  same  artist  on  the  series.  But  I old 
so  like  Carroll.  . . He  was  the  hero,  wasn^t  Ire? 

PILLOWS  should  be  put  in  bed  with  Oena  & dick.  'Or 
maybe  they  have — I haven't  heard  of  those  two  tor  some  time. 
Good!  (So,  by  the  bye.  was  the  story  THE  PtLLOWS.), 

THE  CTRAN&KT  BBWELLOWS  comes  next.  Intereshng. 

PRECOGNITION  was  one  of  those  stories  with  -no  -physfca! 
ecHon  ^at  are  highly  pleasing  psychologicatly. 

THE  REVERSED  -MAN  was  a theme  that  I have  read  before. 
Clarke  did  much  befter  with  "Against  the  Fall  of  Night.** 
Of  course,  I can't  expect  him  to  turn  out  a masterpiece 
every  day  or  three.  once  every  two  months. 

Which  brings  us  to  that  phenomenon  of  a Spooking  Reader 
who  never  makes  a sound — swords.  Nardixri.  Bradlay,  etc. 
tify  two  cents*  worth — there  is  a feeling  of  'romanticism  dbaul 
a sword  which  you  can't  quite  capture  in  a bulky  intricafa 
ray  pistol.  Moyba  It  does  sound  rncongruous,  swords  % the 
future,  but  lets  of  readers  seem  to  like  if. 

Remember  what  Einstein  said— "1  don't  know  what  fhe 
next  war  w»!l  be  fought  with  but  the  one  offer  that  will 
be  fought  with  clubs,'^  That's  not  verbatim  but  you  get  the 
gist.  Maybe  they  wort:  up  to  swords  after  that. 

Fade  into  the  background  a record,  for  proper  atmosphere. 
The  song:  "Dream."  Now  we  coma  te  Sgt.  Renrus*  iefter.  If's 
a wonderful  idea,  Sarge.  Jim  Harmon  was  the  guy  Who 
wrote  the  letter  that  inspired  you  by  the  way.  He  mentioned 
one  good  objection  to  s-fen  trying  to  start  such  a project. 
The  immediate  reaction  of  anyone  approached  would  be, 
"You  read  science  ftetion,  huh?  Another  of  these  dreamers. 
Sorry.  I want  to  put  my  money  iiite  reaiity**'  Tay  and  cenomce 
them  of  fhe  realify  af  a rocket  to  the  meon.  ^ust  tey. 

Seems  no  one  has  mentioned  that  the  mevie  Heintein  Is 
warking  on,  DKTINATION  tdOON,  'is  te  i>e  -in  Tedmic^or, 
and  one  reviewer  said  that  it  "might  well  be  the  surprise 


picture  of  'I9S0."  Tbore  era  <na  Name  stars  In  -It,  but  4t  seems 
te  me  that  might  be  fitting. 

Few  of  the  Name  stars  could  fit  into  a role  4n  s-{,  -udless 
it  was  written  for  them,  seems  to  me.  Let's  let  a new  •orep 
grow  up  and  develop  tor  s-f  alone.  Watchaothink?  tYau  do, 
don't  you?)  Do  you  realize  that  I havan*t  pestered  you  vote 
a poem  or  even  an  attempt  at  sanne  for  what  seams  -like 
ages?  WsIL  1 shall  exert  my  will  power  and  -refrain  once 
more.  You  lucky  thing,  you.— Box  493,  Lynn  Haven,  .Fla. 

Very  well,  Sbel,  in  view  of  your  objec- 
tions to  name  stars  in  stf  movies — and  ki 
view  of  the  recent  RocketsMp  X-M  and  Op- 
eration Moon,  let’s  take  time  out  to  cast  a 
space  plot  or  two  with  established  favorites 
of  the  cinema.  We  might  even  t^e  the  cor- 
rect (August)  issue  tor  plots. 

We  begin  with  Henry  Kuttner’s  AS  YOU 
WERE,  our  lead  story.  If  you  haven’t  yet 
read  it  it  concerns  a great  (and  greatly 
phony)  author’s  harried  nephew-secretary, 
who  wants  to  marry  a movie  star  but  can’t 
because  his  uncle  has  fouled  up  the  deal. 
There  is  an  absent-minded  European  scien- 
tist involved  as  well  as  a stone  frog,  a chief 
of  police  and  some  trans-dimensional  sight- 
seers who  inadvertently  get  the  time-sched- 
ule all  bailed  up. 

For  the  nephew  we  might  select  Ray 
Milland  (and  then  again  we  might  n<it), 
for  the  vicious  author-unde  Clifton  Wehb 
or  Jane  PoweB,  for  the  scientist  Jean 
Hersholt  or  Albert  Dekker.  Francis  could 
be  the  chief  of  police  and,  of  course,  Mar- 
jorie Main  the  glamour  gal,  with  the  Ritz 
brothers  playing  the  alien  travelers  (sure- 
ly they  look  alien  enough  and  anyway  they 
never  appear  in  the  picture). 

Having  begun  with  this  one,  let’s  end  it 
right  here.  But  the  possibilities  are  infinite. 
You’ve  really  got  to  step  to  count  out  Holly- 
wood, yes  indeed,  Mr.  De  Mille. 


YOU  CERTAINLY  MAY 
by  Lin  Carter 


Cheerio:  Moy  I s*y  the!  I was  rether  favorably  Impreated 
with  your  June  issuer  Far  be  It  from  me  To— Heaven -forbidl 
—butter  en  editor  up  just  To  get  a letter  printed,  bt^  I 
reelly  must  eay  I liked  this  ish.  First  There  was  the  cover.  'Now 
if  I may  mrte  an  ondersteTenoent,  Bergey  k mJt  my  favorite 
cover  artist.  But  I rather  liked  This  one,  not  to  gandi  and 
bright  as  usual,  In  Tact  quite  good. 

Raymond  Jones  is  one  author  I'm  not  TermiRar  with.  I've 
seen  his  by-line  before  and  probably  read  plenty  df  Jones- 
iano  but  can't  offhand  conjure  up  any  outetanding  yarn.  Well 
SLINDAY  was  pretty  darn  good.  Rather  along  the  same  lines 
as  C.  L.  Moore's  VINTACT  SEASON.  The  method  of  timJ 
travel  seemed  reasonably  unique  and  the  characters  were 
unusually  well-handled.  Fvetty  good  yarn  and  an  intriguing 
Title  by  the  way. 

COFFIN  TO  MARS  was  probably  the  best  story  In  the 
issue.  Welt-handled  mood  and  a fine  Tight  plot  helped  ft 
considerably.  I'd  IHre  to  see  some  more  along  this  line.  The 
handling^  of  The  aged  in  this  piece,  ^minded  me  df  the 
euteana^a— the  "Sixty"— In  tsaac  Asimov's  recent  novel 
"Pebble  in  the  Sky." 

The  latest  In  tlm  Space  Salvage  series  was  somewhot 
superior  to  the  more  recent  ones  tho  I am  beginning  to  get 
e wee  bH  tired  of  the  same  characters  in  the  same  positions, 
yam  after  yam.  'I  tee  you've  had  Orlsen  illustrate  three  of 
four  stories  in  this  ish — may  one  ask  what's  happened  lo 
Finlay  ond  Lewrence/Stovens?  Your  interior  art'  seems  your 
weakest  point  at  the  moment.  For  gosh  sakes  do  something 
ebout  ’It. 

Arthur  C.  darhe  is  really  one  of  the  best  of  the  newer 


14S 


crop  ol  writers.  His  REVERSED  MAN  reminded  me  of  von 
Vogt  strongly,  lha  idea  of  Nelson  starving  because  he  was 
wnable  to  eat  the  reversed-moldcute  proteins  was  a VERY 
clever  twist,  startlingly  clever.  You  realty  ought  to  cultivate 
this  boy,  he's  going  places. 

The  rest  ot  the  stories  were  mediocre  with  some  good 
pix  by  Napoli,  who  is  evolving  a style  very  much  like  the 
great  Aubrey  Beardsley.  Best  news  in  aeons  Is  the  Return 
of^  Hankuttner  In  the  next  issuel  Hope  it's  another  bang>up 
science-fantasy  for  e change.  Kutt  hasn't  given  us  a really 
good  one  since  THE  TIME  AXIS. 

While  on  the  subiect  of  stories  coming  up,  when — WHEN — 
WHEN  do  we  get  a yarn  by  Edmond  Hamilton  and  Leigh 
Brackett?  I thot  surely,  now  that  they're  married,  they'd  turn 
out  a few  collaborations.  The  blending  of  their  two  dis> 
tinctive  and  hSgh-ouality  talents  should  really  be  sumthin'il 
I'm  still  hoping. 

Got  quite  a kick  out  of  Astra  Bradley's  Hamlet-a'la-stet 
Soliloquyl  You  will  notice,  he  sez  with  feverish  glints  in  his 
little  red  eyes,  that  I have  for  the  last  four  or  five  letters, 
managed  to  restrain  meself  in  regard  to  poetry.  Be  warned! 
I shan't  be  able  to  hold  ‘er  in  for  long.  And  when  she 
comes,  she's  coming  like  those  things  by  Shelby  Vick  . . . 
a-la-Archy.  ^ be  warned! — 1734  Newark  St.  So.,  St.  Petersburg, 
Florida. 

What  are  these  poetic  shackles  or  grackles 
or  whatever  you  lads  have  donned  of  late 
to  gyve  your  jive?  Better  shed  them  one 
of  these  days — ye  Edde  has  had  little  rhyth- 
mic, to  say  nothing  of  diarhythmic,  to  tear 
his  purpling  hair  over  of  late. 

So  you  want  the  Brack  and  the  Ham  to 
collaborate,  Lin — well,  once  again  we  feel 
impelled  to  disinter  the  oldie  about  the  time 
Isadora  Duncan  wrote  George  Bernard 
Shaw,  suggesting  they  get  together  for  the 
purpose  of  providing  the  world  with  a eu- 
genic offspring  which  would  “combine  your 
brains  and  my  beauty.” 

And  once  again  we  disinter  G.B.S.’s  re- 
ply, to  wit — "But,  Miss  Duncan,  suppose  it 
combined  my  beauty  and  your  brains?” 

Better  leave  well  enough  alone  since  both 
seem  to  be  producing  well  independently  of 
late. 

VALE 

by  Bob  Farnhom 

Dear  Editor:  Tbit  ii  one  of  tbe  hordetf  lofters  I have  ever 
Hod  to  write. 

Am  reading  the  June  issue  of  THRILLING  WONDER 
STORIES  but  IhU  time  I shall  not  comment,  for  »t  is  prob* 
ably  the  last  one  I shall  ever  be  able  to  buy.  I lost  my 

e*  b that  I've  had  for  tl^  past  twenty-five  years,  and  have 
len  forced  out  of  service  on  my  disability  pension. 

My  income  has  stopped  and  H will  be  at  least  three 
months  before  i'll  have  my  fust  pension  check,  and  at  $70  a 
month  for  two  people,  it  will  not  permit  such  luxuries  as 
**our"  two  magazines.  Fortunately,  a group  of  unknown  fans 
have  come  to  my  aid  and  I am  able  to  retain  active  member* 
ship  in  the  National  Fantasy  Fan  Federation.  Otherwise  I 
should  have  to  drop  out  of  fandom  entirely. 

I do  not  mind  going  on  my  pension  but  I have  held  hopes 
of  seHing  a story  and  to  realize  that  I must  drop  such 
efforts  leaves  a rather  bitter  taste  in  my  rrvouth,  especially 
after  receiving  an  encouraging  note  with  the  usual  reiection 
slip. 

Supplies  and  stamps  cost  $$$ — these  I do  not  have,  so  I 
guess  that  this  letter  is  a sort  of  good-bye  note.  Even  my 
ribbon  is  going  out.  Oh  welt—t  guess  that  is  Life. 

After  having  made  many  friends  in  Fandom  it  is  hard  to 
say  good-bye,  but  if  those  of  my  Fan  Friends  who  read  this 
letter  do  not  hear  from  me  again,  they  will  know  why.  So 
Long,  Fella,  and  carry  on  with  the  good  work  you  are  doing. 
I've  nod  to  drop  mine,  and  right  in  the  middle  of  the  most 
serious  effort  yeti — 104  Mountain  View  Drive,  Dalton,  Georgia. 

This  is  just  about  as  tough  to  answer  as 
it  was  for  you  to  write.  But,  Bob,  we  have  a 


hunch  you’ll  find  you  have  a lot  more  friends 
than  you  think— especially  knowing  stfan- 
dom.  As  for  your  stories — write  them  any- 
way. And  when  you  think  any  one  of  them 
is  good  enough  take  a gamble  on  postage. 

We  have  another  hunch  that  you’ll  be  re- 
ceiving a few  stamps  from  this  clinic  we 
call  our  readers.  And  we  can  promise  you 
the  most  constructive  criticism  possible  if 
you  choose  to  send  your  creative  outpour- 
ings our  way — and  a prayer  from  us  that  we 
shall  be  able  to  send  you  further  stamp 
money  in  the  form  of  a story  check.  Stay 
with  it. 

As  for  you,  readers,  please  see  to  it  that 
he  does. 

CANADIAN  CAPER 
by  Bill  Morse 

Sir:  You  let  me  down  with  e beng  this  month.  No  Flnloy 
and  no  Bradbury.  That  lowers  your  Hooper  rating  consider- 
ably. 

Raymond  F.  Jones,  I see,  clings  to  Ms  favorite  thesis— 
never  underestimate  the  power  of  a wornan  0 won't).  The 
thought  of  being  married  to  a female  genius  gives  rrve  cold 
shivers.  It  would  feel  worse  if,  as  in  the  handsome  hero's 
case.  I knew  she  considered  rne  a savage.  Good  story, 
though. 

THE  REVERSED  MAN  had  a good  idea  which  would  have 
come  off  better  in  a novelet  or  a full  length  tob.  As  it  was 
1 had  a feeling  of  anticlimax. 

NO  HIDING  PLACE— for  once  I enioyed  the  Space  Salvage 
stuff.  It  must  have  been  the  black  and  hairy  boys.  Thevd 
rr^ake  nice  pets  around  the  house.  Jake  should  have  kept  a 
couple  to  tame  Helen  with. 

COFFINS  FOR  MARS— hmmmi  imagine  a thousand  years 
of  married  lifel  I should  live  so  long!  Gallun  put  his  tale 
over  very  well. 

PRECOGNITION-I  like. 

STRANGEST  BEDPELLOWS-the  artist  (Napoli?)  caught  the 
weird  and  wonderful  description  of'  the  Lethcans.  t hate  to 
think  that  politicking  will  be  unchanged  so  far  in  the  future, 
but  it  made  a good  gimmick  to  bring  about  the  happy 
ending. 

THE  PILLOWS — yes,  sir!  An  aH  too  human  endtag  In  the 
best  tradition  of  the  prophet  without  honor  in  his  own 
country. 

On  the  whole  an  average  issue.  Nothing  outstandingty 
good  and  nothing  to  complain  of  except  the  omissions  already 
stated, 

TRS — how  those  people  hate  to  admit  that  Bradbury  is 
fh  the  right!  Ray  is  neither  bitter  nor  morbid  nor  perverted. 
He  U more  a modern  Cassandra  than  a Juvenal  a^  he  hits 
the  nail  every  time.  Despite  Calvin  Beck's  petulant  attempt 
to  blame  the  governments  for  the  sir>s  6f  the  people,  Man  is 
responsible  for  his  own  brutality. 

Sorry  if  I don't  express  myself  well.  Gwen  Cunningham  said 
alt  there  was  to  say  about  PAYI^ENT  IN  FULL  and  that  tale 
is  all  Bradbury. 

Finally  (and  about  time  too)  your  reply  to  me.  Cad? 
Could  oe.  I'd  rather  have  a Dancing  Girl  of  Ganymede.— 
W.  E.  E.  (RAF  Signals)  RCAF,  Edmonton,  Alberto,  Canada. 

We  agree  about  the  Bradburyarn  in  ques- 
tion, Bill.  Also  about  the  Dancing  Gal.  But 
what  steams  us  up  about  your  epistle  is 
your  opinion  of  an  "average  issue.”  Zounds, 
man,  what  do  you  do  for  adjectives  when 
we  come  up  with  something  special  (or 
rather  when  our  alleged  authors  do)  ? 

SIGN  OF  THE  RAMSAY 
by  R.  H.  Ramsoy 

Dear  Editor:  I read  the  entire  contents  of  the  June  TWS 
without  being  inspired  to  write  a latter,  until  I came  to  the 
Reader  Speaks  section.  I never  heard  of  Leo  Hicklirvg  before 
but  1 hope  to  again.  In  his  letter  he  said  something  that  has 
needod  saying  for  some  time. 

I don*t  Tike  Bradbury  ei^er.  At  one  t«N»e  I did  to  e 


14« 


Kmitcd  extent  but  I don’t  any  more.  Less  on  account  ot  his 
fMtred  of  humariity,  however,  than  tor  his  rrtorbidity.  A good 
deal  is  said  of  Bradbury's  "powers  ot  imagination."  Actuatty 
his  imagination  is  extremely  limited,  not  to  be  compared 
with  the  free-wheeling  concepts  of  Theodore  Sturgeon  tor  ex- 
ample. Bradbury  has  only  one  theme — ^^death — and  preferably 
some  unnatural  or  unhealthy  aspect  thereof.  He  does  possess 
a certain  ingenuity  in  >nventinq  variations  on  this  therne,  but 
when  he  tries  to  handle  a subiect  not  directly  abutting  on 
the  graveyard,  he  writes  like  a hack. 

Consider  his  choice  of  locales.  Mars,  notoriously  a dead 
world.  And  his  well-known  stories  about  Mexico. , which  he 
characterizes  as  a land  ot  death  |tho  to  a sociologist  Mexico 
•S  a country  which  has  progressed  farther  In  the  past  twenty 
years  than  any  other  in  the  western  hemisphere). 

The  tact  that  certain  well-placed  persons  outside  of  the 
pulp  field  also  admire  Bradbury  is  not  particularly  significant. 
At  present  there  is  an  unfortunate  fad  for  that  type  of  litera- 
ture— the  death  obsession,  scorn  for  humanity,  contempt  for 
the  strivings  of  mankind,  acceptance  of  doom  with  a pre- 
tense ot  philosophic  enthusiasm.  And  this  at  a time  whm 
man's  supreme  efforts  are  needed  for  h!s  own  survival.  It  is 
not  hard  to  find  a certain  commentary  on  the  state  of  what 
we  call  our  society  in  this  trend. 

Bradbury  does  have  an  enviable  power  of  language  but  to 
give  this  as  a reason  for  his  popularity  rings  as  false  as  the 
statement  of  a high-school  student  I once  knew,  who  justi^ed 
his  choice  of  the  Rubaiyat  as  his  favorite  poem  by  saying. 
"I  like  Orrwr's  style."  Mr.  Hickling  says.  "I  am  quite  unable 
to  account  for  the  worship  Bradbury  receives  from  the  aver- 
age reader.’*  I can  account  for  It.  The  pose  of  cynical 
misanthropy  and  voluptuous  morbidity  is  a prominent  feature 
of  adolescent  romanticism;  and,  despUe  all  recent  expansions 
ot  the  popuiaritv  of  science  fiction,  the  "average"  reader 
at  stf  pulps  is  adolescent. 

I think  that  as  time  goes  on  an  increasing  number  of  fans 
will  come  to  agree  with  me — for  the  reason  that  I believe  the 
no^al  man  has  a natural  preference  for  life  over  death,  sun- 
shine over  gloom,  health  over  disease.  There  will  always  be 
more  k^s  coming  to  discover  Bradbury  with  sighs  of  ecstasy 
—and  undoubtedly  a small  core  of  pure-art  cuHists,  the  kind 
who  go  into  raptures  over  Ivy  Compton-Burnett,  and  of 
"illus'onless’’  thinkers  ot  the  sort  who  believe  that  George 
Crwell  has  an  Important  Message,  will  remain  true  to  Brad- 
bury, but  the  bulk  of  readers,  I arn  certain,  will  eventu- 
ally outgrow  him.  The  tact  that  tew  have,  so  far,  is  nof 
important  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  Bradbury  cult  is  only 
about  five  years  old. — Box  1723,  Fargo.  N.  D. 

It  is  our  hunch,  R.H.,  that  you  are  speak- 
ing with  a voice  filtered  by  your  fears.  Dis- 
regarding the  nuisance  of  taxes,  the  only 
certainty,  once  we  achieve  being  spanked 
on  our  little  blue  bottoms  by  mid-wife  or 
obstetrician,  is  death.  This  is  a fact  which 
most  of  us  do  our  damnedest  to  forget  in 
the  interim,  which  reverse  obsession  is  gen- 
erally one  of  our  greatest  follies. 

We  have,  in  the  course  of  our  forty  years, 
seen  a number  of  persons  die — both  in  and 
out  of  bed.  It  used  to  scare  h — 11  out  of  us. 

But  after  a lunch  session  at  the  Players 
too  long  ago  with  Don  Marquis  and  Irv 
Cobb  (neither  of  whom  could  be  called  ex- 
actly morbid)  we  decided  that  if  they  were 
having  such  fun  with  the  subject  we  might 
as  well  forget  our  carefully  built-in  tabu 
and  get  into  the  act. 

Don  asked  Irv  to  tell  us  the  story  about 
the  Kentucky  Gei-man  family  with  the  sui- 
cide habit  and  it  was  strictly  hysterical. 
Not  to  mention  gruesome.  Being  about 
twenty-three  at  the  time  and  respecting  our 
elders,  we  decided  they  were  healthy  about 
it  all  and  went  along  with  them. 

Bradbury  is  no  necrophile.  He  is,  on  the 
contrary,  a gay  good-humored  individual 
who  is  very  nice  to  have  around  the  house 
(although,  with  apologies  to  Bill  Morse, 


we’d  rather  have  Dinah).  After  all,  inter- 
est in  death  is  as  normal  as  anything  else  in 
life.  It  is  certainly  the  basis,  alas,  of  most 
religions. 

Not  talking  about  it  is  as  absurd  as  the 
long-dead  Volstead  Act.  And  if  you  can  talk 
about  it — well,  why  not?  It  is  nothing  to 
fear.  A mere  thought  of  the  billions  of  er- 
rant cowards  who  have  succeeded  in  dying 
removes  panic.  It  is  far  better  and  saner  to 
get  a little  fun  out  of  the  fact  and  the  idea. 

BUM  STFEERS 
by  Bob  Hoskins 

Dear  Ed.:  SUNDAY  IS  3,000  YEARS  AWAY  didn’t  quila  live 
up  to  my  expectations  but  it  is  good  tor  Jones.  I haven’t 
finished  the  whole  ish  yet  but  so  far  I prefer  IN  HIDING. 
In  either  SS  or  TWS  recently  you  said  that  Hank  Kuttner 
ain’t  Cleve  Cartmill.  If  he  ain't,  sorr>ebody  is  going  arounef 
giving  a lot  of  fen  bum  steers.  And  If  he  ain't  that  means 
that  Hank  isn't  In  this  ish  of  TWS  at  all.  What’s  the  mag 
coming  too? 

Remember  the  good  ole  da)^  when  Hank  would  quite 
often  nave  three  stories  in  an  ish?  And  don’t  say  it  ain't- 
sol  I know  of  at  least  two  instonces.  Too  lazy  to  dig  the 
mags  out  of  my  closet,  tho, 

Clarke  ought  to  stick  to  the  stories  of  the  far  future.  I did^rt 
like  the  REVERSED  MAN  at  all.  At  the  time  I am  trying  to 
decide  just  how  bad  it  actually  was.  When  is  he  going  to 
do  something  more  on  the  line  of  AGAfNST  THE  IvML  OF 
NIGHT?  If  he  tried  hard  he  oughta  be  able  to  work  out  a 
novel-length  sequel  to  ATFON. 

Recently  I had  the  misfortune  to  become  the  owner  ot  Ai 
copy  of  Volume  I.  Number  I CAPTAIN  FUTURE.  I can’t  rc.-d‘ 
the  d — n thing.  \Vill  just  save  it  for  my  collection.  Hamilton 
sure  has  improved  his  style  In  the  new  Cep  Future  novelets. 
Incidentally,  are  you  only  going  to  have  one  of  these  every 
other  ish  of  SS?  You  oughta  have  one  in  each  ish  of  both 
SS  and  TWS. 

This  ish  of  TWS  marks  sorta  anniversary  for  me.  It  w-*is 
exactly  a year  aao  that  I picked  up  my  first  ish  of  THRILLING' 
WONDER  STORIES,  companion  to  SS,  and  featuring  « 
Brackettale.  Since  then  I have  got  several  of  the  back  ishes 
for  recent  years.  You  sure  has  Improved,  boy. 

Think  it  rnay  be  possible  to  print  the  rest  of  the  Pete 
Manx  series  in  the  two  new  mags?  If  you  had  one  in  each  ish 
of  both  it  would  give  us  five  a year.  Shouldn’t  take  too  long 
to  clean  up  the  series  in  that  way. 

I'll  be  glad  when  the  second  ish  of  the  quarterly  rolls 
around.  Recently  got  the  January  1934  WONDER  STORIES 
with  Part  I of  Vaughan’s  EXILE  OF  THE  SKIES.  Seems  like  e 
wonderful  story. 

Once  again  I want  to  repeat  my  request  for  pen-pals.  By 
the  time  this  letter  appears  (if  it  appears)  I’M  be  l7.>-LyonB 
Falls.  New  York. 

We  wish  Clarke  would  come  up  with  an- 
other novel — and  how  we  do!  Unfortunate- 
ly he  is  a pretty  busy  little  bee  on  the  other 
side  of  the  pond  at  present — he  is  quite  the 
white-haired  lad  among  certain  British  sci- 
entific groups  and  deservedly  so,  to  say 
nothing  of  playing  an  extremely  active  role 
in  the  highly  erudite  British  Interplane- 
tary Society. 

We’ll  run  acceptable  CF  novelets  as  often 
as  the  maestro  turns  them  out.  As  for  Pete' 
Manx — he  should  ultimately  turn  up  in  one. 
of  our  new  reprint  magazines. 

Utterly  unapropoe  aside  to  Betsy  Curtis,, 
whose  fanzine  THE  CRICKET  arrived  ami; 
was  perused  at  this  point — avee  plaitir.  You. 
need  a book  for  university  study?  Why  nob 
THE  WIND  IN  THE  WILLOWS  or  Nor- 
man Douglas’  SOUTH  WIND?  Both  Brit-., 
ieh,  ’tis  true,  but  both  very  fine. 


COMPULSION  COMMENT 
by  Ed  Cox 

D^Af  Editor:  A few  comments  on  the  June  TWS.  I reelly 
must  you  know.  It  has  become  a habit.  And  ( can't  break  it. 
Looks  tike  you  are  in  for  a tetter  a month  from  yours  truty,  the 
Lubec  Leprechaun. 

Well,  I must  say  that  the  JuneSOTWS  V36n2  was  a bit  below 
par.  Not  especially  in  the  story-quality,  but  in  life,  fire,  zest, 
spice,  etc.  In  other  words,  it  was  daid,  man,  DAtDI  Now 
SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILES  AWAY  was  a fioo 
story.  Very,  very  good.  But  placid.  I LIKE  Ray  Jones'  stories.  I 
might  even  say  that  I admire  his  writing  ability.  But  no  pep. 
Not  that  a story  like  this  needs  pep.  So  let’s  continue  down 
the  contents  page. 

And  we  come  to  NO  HIDING  PLACE.  A yarn  that  I liked 
very  much.  In  fact  it  had  more  life  to  it  than  most  of  the 
rest.  Correction— it  DID  have  more  than  any  other  or  ali  the 
rest  together.  A fitting  climax  to  the  series  I might  say.  I 
enjoyecT  this  story  and  series  very  much.  I hope  Cartmill  will 
continue  to  produce  such  entertaining  fare. 

Then  we  nave  a very  significant  story  in  the  returned 
master,  Ray  Gallun's  COFFINS  TO  MAI^.  It  was  a drab 
story,  however.  But  then,  maybe  it  was  supposed  to  be.  To 
emphasize  the  lost  hope,  utter  lack  of  the  will  to  live  by  the 
*'doom<ed"  colonists.  It  fumed  out  as  I suspected  though.  I 
guess  nearly  seven  years  of  intensive  stf  reading  has  taught 
me  too  many  signs,  clues,  etc.,  tn  the  plot-development  of  me 
stories  and  authors.  But,  to  the  story  again,  1 will  say  that 
CTM  was  very  worth  worth-while.  I hope  to  see  more  like  it. 

Down  in  the  short  stories  dept,  I fear  that  I must  say 
(altho  I hate  to)  that  Clarke's  story  was  way  below  par  for 
him.  The  Idea  was  nice,  ending  effective  but.  . . . Maybe  it 
was  the  handling.  I dunno.  It  lust  missed  fire  with  this 
reader. 

Newcomer  Mack  Reynolds'  sto^  was — well — it  read  good, 
the  writing  was  capable.  No  definite  comment  I guess. 

William  Morrison's  story  was — awfull  The  neat  trick  ie  it 
was  good,  but  this  story  goes  to  show  '^ust  how  badly  an 
author  CAN  fall  down  when  trying  to  write  about  the  psy- 
chology of  alien  races. 

THe  PILLOWS  was  another  one  oo  that  old  thenne.  From  the 
Speer  Decimal  Classification,  this  would  ba  about  34.1.  That 
old  one  where  an  alien  creature,  parasitic  in  nature  usually, 
fakes  subtle  control  over  unsuspecting  Man.  Everyone's  tired. 
Even  Bradbury.  He  didn't  do  bad  either.  But  St.  Clair  didn't 
do  too  well.  Could've  though. 

AM  in  all  no  story  in  this  issue  really  had  pulsing  life  to  it, 
with  vivid  paintings  of  alien  scenes,  exotic  and  strange,  with 
atmosphere  oozing  off  the  printed  page.  Like  Brackett  can 
do.  Like  so  oiany  of  the  old  authors  could  do.  So— WHERE'S 
BRACKETT?  7 7 And  her  hubby  as  well.  Hamilton  can  really 
create  an  alien  scene  and  atmosphere.  Glop!  He'll  be  in  the 
issuel  Hoooorraeaavt  And  our  "William  Morrison"  can 
too,  as  witness  his  CF  stories  in  the  last  issues  of  that  iong- 
daid  mag. 

I'm  really  very  pleased  to  see  you  using  the  work  of  Paul 
Orban  so  much  lately.  Somehow,  he's  always  been  my  old 
standby  fave.  He's  been  in  Illustrating  since  the  early  '30's 
and  his  pics  always  give  you  the  impression  that  something's 
aoing  on.  Read  the  storyl  Rnd  outl  I liked  especially  his  pic 
for  Cartmiit's  yam.  And  Napoltl  Oh,  coma  now,  now  can 
you  do  this  to  us?  It  was  norrible.  Who  did  the  plx  for 
neynoids*  and  St.  Clair's  stories?  A revitalhad  Napoli? 
Guess  that  U all.  See  you  in  SS  and  FSQ. — 4 Spring  St.« 
Lubec,  Me. 


You’ll  be  gettLagf  Brackett  and  lots  of  her 
in  an  SS  novel  sometime  around  the  first  of 
the  year.  The  story  is  in  and  it’s  a dilly.  As 


for  Hamilton,  how  much  do  you  want? 
What  with  his  Cap  Future  novelets  and  his 
recent  novel,  THE  CITY  AT  WORLD’S 
END  in  the  same  magazine,  he’s  giving  us 
quite  a lot.  And  there  was  Leigh’s  swell 
novelet,  THE  TRUANTS,  in  the  same  issue. 

Hey,  come  to  think  of  it  the  Hamiltons 
are  appearing  exclusively  in  our  companion 
mag  of  late.  Have  to  do  something  about 
that.  TWS  is  suffering  from  their  loss.  As 
for  those  illos,  the  St.  Clair  one  was  Napoli 
as  guessed,  but  the  Reynolds  job  was  a 
Peter  Poulton. 

READERCHAT 
by  Emil  A.  Thompeon 

My  Dear  Editor:  Scanning  tha  readers'  division  of  tbe 
TWS  June  '50  issue,  I'm  impressed  by  the  statement  that 
some  of  the  readers  are  "going  mad,"  namely  de  Weese  & 
Calvin  Beck.  Do  they  go  'wild,  simply  wild"  over  Thrilling 
Wander  or  what?  Uncle  Remus  goes  mildly  wild  because  we 
as  yet  have  no  space  transit.  He  wants  to  soar  into  the  wide 
open  interstellar  spaces  in  a cute  tittle  rocket,  bound  for 
Venus.  Don't  worry,  Uncle,  some  day.  when  the  A or  H- 
bombs  make  the  earth  too  hot  for  us,  we  will  build  plenty 
of  rockefshtp>s  to  escape— hope  it  won't  be  too  late.  . . . 

The  Bonestell  scenes  in  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Venus"  were 
dated  500  yr$.  from  now.  Much  can  happen  in  S centuries 
both  here — and  on  Venus.  Five  centuries  ago  Colunvbus  hadn't 
as  yet  discovered  America  and  where  now  New  York's  sky- 
scrapers raise  their  proud  towers  against  the  sky  the  isle  of 
Manhattan  stood  virgin  and  primeval,  untoucheo  by  civiliza- 
tion. Who  can  tell  how  It  will  look  500  yrs.  from  now. 

Meanwhile  we  must  be  content  by  doing  our  time-machine 
end  space  travel  via  S-F  and  our  imagination.  It  has  the 
benefit  of  not  being  es  dangerous  as  the  actual  time  or  space 
travel. 

I agree  fully  with  Marion  Zimmer,  that  it  is  a pity  that 
Shakespeare  could  not  have  lived  in  our  stf-fraught  20th  cen- 
tury. He  was  somewhat  of  a fantasy  writer  himself:  what 
tragedies  and  oh  what  comedies  he  could  Save  written;  and 
how  the  critics  would  have  enjoyed  panning  him. 

"CofRns  to  Mars"  seems  fo  me  the  best  in  this  Issue.  But 
ali  the  novelets  end  shorts  are  good. 

With  the  best  to  you  and  TWS  I hope  fo  remain  cordially 
and  sinceroly  yours. — 3953  N.  E.  9th  Ave.,  Portland  12,  Ore. 

Your  yen  for  Shakespeare  reminds  us  a 
little  of  Bradbury’s  yen  for  Thomas  Wolfe’s 
resurrection  in  the  future — in  a story  which 
appeared  in  a rival  magazine.  However,  for- 
tunately or  otherwise,  each  era  has  to  get 
by  with  the  authors  it  can  produce — and 
this  one,  like  those  that  lie  ahead,  has  its 
full  share  of  powerful  word-builders. 

Unfortunately,  it  is  seldom  easy  to  pick 
out  the  truly  fine  writers  during  their  life- 
times. Issues  and  authors  that  seem  im- 
portant at  the  moment  have  a way  of  shift- 
ing with  the  perspective  of  the  future.  For 
instance,  while  Will  Shakespeare  was  rec- 
ognized as  one  of  the  competent  dramatists 
during  the  Elizabethan  and  early  Stuart 
periods  in  England,  his  true  greatness  as  a 
poet-playwright  was  not  generally  realized 
until  a century  and  a half  or  more  after  his 
death. 

Men  like  Marlowe  and  Greene  and  Peele 
and  Lily  and  Ben  Jonson  among  his  contem- 
poraries attracted  as  much  or  more  atten- 
tion. Then,  of  course,  came  the  Restoration 
titans,  men  like  Congreve  and  Dryden  and 


148 


Wycherley,  to  be  followed  by  the  Eighteenth 
Century  dramatists — Sheridan,  Horace 

Walpole  and — yes,  John  Burgoyne,  who  had 
a near-Noel  Cowardish  vogue. 

It  was  during  the  dearth  of  first-class 
playwrights  that  followed  the  above  and 
was  ended  only  with  the  rise  of  George 
Bernard  Shaw,  Pinero  and  others  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  last  century  that  Shake- 
speare, seen  in  full  perspective,  really  came 
into  his  own. 

With  the  comparatively  recent  develop- 
ment of  the  novel  as  a staple  of  English  lit- 
erature, the  stress  has  to  some  extent  shift- 
ed from  the  drama — although  the  growth 
not  only  of  the  movies  but  of  television  is 
currently  threatening  to  make  dramatic 
writing  again  preeminent.  And  more  able 
and  talented  writers  than  ever  before  are 
plying  their  trade. 

Who  will  emerge  as  our  own  titans? — 
we’ll  have  to  wait  and  see. 

TWO  IN  ONE 
by  Dick  Ryon 

Dcof  £d:  Meihought  I heard  a voice  Cry  "Sleep  no  morel" 

. . . Bergey  hath  murder'd  sleep  and  therefore  the  fen  shall 
sleep  no  more;  Ye  Ed  shall  sleep  ivo  more.  . . . 

riease  do  not  construe  the  above  as  another  shot  in  the 
never-ending  cover  war.  I got  so  tickled  at  Marion  Bradley's 
parody  that  I thought  I'd  try  one.  As  a matter  of  fact,  the 
covers  for  May  and  June  are  the  best  in  a year — for  Bergey. 
that  is. 

I fully  intended  to  write  a long  epistle,  glowing  with  ad- 
iectives.  on  that  wonderful  May  STARTLING.  But  I never  got 
around  to  it,  so  this  w'll  have  to  do  for  two  issues. 

WINE  OF  THE  DREAMERS.  Now,  I've  been  a fan  for  only 
Ihe  last  twelven>onth  and  my  reading  experience  has  been 
limited  accordinoly.  But  1 really  mean  it  when  I say  that  this 
is  the  BEST  book-lengther  I have  read.  It  even  Otters  Lein- 
ster's THE  OTHER  WORLD,  also  an  alien-forces  novel,  which 
I had  considered  tops  up  to  now. 

SIGNBOARD  OF  SPACE.  Again  I am  speechless.  (Well, 
almost.)  You  know,  you  can  overwork  adjectives  up  to  the 
point  where  they  are  meaningless.  That's  what  would  hai^en 
»f  I tried  to  praise  this  one  as  it  should  be  praised.  Stl^N- 
BOARD  after  eleven  years  is  stilt  as  new  end  thrilling  as 
tomorrow.  Thanks  a million  for  printing  it. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN.  Welt.  In  another  issue  this  could 
be  number  one.  When  you  get  the  good  ones  you  really  pack 
'em  in,  don't  you?  I've  always  opposed  space-fantasy,  as  this 
definitely  is.  But  there  is  something  about  this  story  . . . must 
be  the  cosmic  (only  word  I can  think  of)  manner  in  which 
it  is  written.  Anyway,  I am  a Captain  Future  convert  as  of 
last  month. 

THE  BLACK  EWE.  Very  good.  A touch  of  the  occult  is 
always  nice,  iust  so  you  don't  overdo  it.  SUMMER  WEAR. 
Again,  very  good.  L.  Sprague  de  Camp  is  one  of  s-f's  best 
humor-dispensers.  THE  HISTORIAN.  Little  nnore  than  a filler, 
stiM  it  pays  its  way. 

Now,  if  you're  still  with  me.  on  to  June  and  TWSi  SUN- 
DAY IS  THREE  THOUSAND  YEARS  AWAY  was  great.  When 
»t  comes  to  blending  pseudo-science  with  the  human  element, 
Raymond  F.  Jones  can't  be  beaten.  I'm  willing  to  bet  that 
heS  an  engineer  or  technician  of  sorts  himself.  A very  talented 
fellow,  Mr.  Jones. 

COFFINS  TO  MARS.  This  one  surprised  me.  I didn't  think  I 
was  going  to  like  it  but  it  sort  of  grows  on  you.  The 
mind-wrenching  disorientation  experienced  by  the  old  people 
seems  to  me  to  be  an  extension  of  a dreaa  of  new  places 
which  has  come  down  through  the  years.  The  unknown  1$  always 
terrifying,  whether  If  be  an  uncrossed  ocean  or  an  unex- 
plored planet.  Happily,  there  are  always  rnen  and  women 
willing  to  brave  the  unknown.  This  story  was  credible,  and 
I liked  it. 

As  for  the  shorts,  they  were  all  above  average.  As  for  the 
final  chapter  in  the  Space  Salvage  series  (it  is,  I trust,  the 
final?),  tne  less  said,  the  better.  Can  this  be  the  same  Cart- 
miM  who  wrote  BELLS  ON  HIS  TOES  and  NUMBER  NINE? 
Come  on,  Cleve,  we  know  you're  better  than  this. 


That,  for  Pete’s  soke,  is  enouoh  story  comment  for  two 
letters.  I like  to  read  it  but  I don't  care  so  much  for 
writing  it.  Sifting  through  the  letter  sections  is  a long, 
though  enioyable,  task  While  we're  on  the  subject  of  depart- 
ments, your  always-adult  editorial  is  an  appreciated  feature. 
It's  never  too  long  and  always  good. 

In  conclusion,  fricnd(s)  (and  anyone  who  has  read  this  far 
is  my  bosom  buddy),  I apologize  for  turning  this  letter  into 
catalogue  of  story  ratings,  and  promise  to  do  belter  next 
time.  By  the  way — J.  P.  Conlon's  letter  from  my  home  town 
gives  me  new  hope  that  there  may  be  other  fovers  of  stf  in 
these  parts.  If  such  exist  and  are  interested  in  forming  a fan 
club  I'd  like  to  hear  from  them.  Just  drop  me  a line.—* 
724  Broad  Street.  Newark,  Ohio. 

Well,  we  hope  we  can  keep  it  up  in  your 
opinion,  Dick.  And  luck  with  fancontacts 
around  Newark,  Ohio.  Incidentally,  Gal- 
lon’s COFFINS  seems  to  have  stirred  up 
some  rather  eerie  fan  reactions. 

Will  someone  please  tell  us  why  stf  should 
concern  itself  only  with  the  sensations  of 
the  very  young?  Or  why  the  very  young 
should  find  it  difficult  to  read  about. folk 
more  mature  than  themselves?  It  gives  us 
to  think  and  comment  anent  same  will  be 
appreciated. 

After  all,  one  of  the  supposedly  fine 
things  about  fandom  is  that  it  is  limited  in 
no  way  to  any  one  age,  sex,  caste  or  color. 

METER  SCHMETER 
by  David  Von  JenreM-e 

Defir  editor:  the  cover  was  horribly  tinted 
with  colors  red,  gray,  and  green, 
but  to  make  sure  this  tetter  gets  printed 
ni  My  you  have  a wonderful  magazine. 

Please  don't  say  my  rhymes  are  poor 
and  they  don't  have  no  meter 
Of  else  t'il  get  terrifically  mad 
end  drop  you  with  my  repeater) 

Orban's  art  is  fine  but  for  Finlay  I do  pinet 
Will  he  soon  return? 

Astarita  isn’t  (olly  end  methinks  'tis  folly  • 

And  all  his  illos  you  should  bum. 

The  stories  were  all  fairly  good  and  fhaf  is  as  H should  be 
To  infinity, 

but  I feel  very  sure  that  fhis  will  not  endure  perpetually 
with  much  continuity. 

I haven't  any  bones 

with  the  works  of  Gallun,  Clarke,  Morrison  and  Jones, 

but  I rate  as  only  fair 

stories  by  Reynolds,  Cartmill  and  St.  Clair. 

Solar  Salvage 
U garbage. 

Sunday  <s  3000  years  away: 

I hope  it  doesn't  stay  that  way! 

Now  I must  recite  to  you 
a tale  of  mystic  Shanadu 
that  city  dead  so  long,  so  long. 

It  lies  tar  in  other  lands, 
dreaming  'neath  the  desert’s  Mnds 
victim  of  a sorcerer's  wrongs. 

If  you  care  to  see  the  rest  of  the  tale 
Contact  Bob  Briney  without  fail. 

And  those  other  Burroughs  morons 
named  Hammond  and  McNaughton 
have  conspired  through  the  mail. 

So  if  you  find  within  your  nMil 
a fan-zine  disgusting,  old.  aad  stale 
I will  teH  you  what  to  do: 

Tear  It  in  a dozen  places 

Aad  rub  it  in  the  moldy  faces 

of  those  guys  who  draeei  of  Shanadel 

But  I am  wondering  from  (fUf  letter 

Back  to  rt  I sere  better 

aet. 

Or  I greatly  fees 


149 


in  m«9  I won't  appe«r 
ret. 

Hoy.  9uy$(  [>o  you  ronlize 
focts? 

ro  fandom  ore  you  dumb? 

ReloxI 

Write  to  Hammond,  Dave, 

that  guy  who  doth  rave 

about  the  works  of  a certain  writer. 

{Though  why  he  loves  him  so 

IS  something  I don't  know 

for  that  guv  is  on  awful  blighter!) 

Hammond  knows,  according  to  report, 

The  whos,  and  whots,  and  wherefore 
of  fandom,  but  really  sport 
what  do  you  care  for 
such  information. 

AgitationI 
That  time 
I didn't  rhyme. 

"Orange"  I can  make  a word  rhyme. 

this  is  honest,  editor,  bet  you  can't  do  this  feat. 

Right  now  I have  not  the  time 

And  so,  ‘ike  the  rest  of  this  letter.  I'll  delete— 

Unless  someone  ceres  to  hear  it  next  timel 

HmmmmmI 

HMMMMM! 

—Box  49,  Runnemede,  New  Jersey. 

We  distrust  those  who  capit’lize 
Their  “vans"  or  “vons"  or  “de”s — 

Or  likewise  with  their  "d”s  and  zu"s 
It  never  should  have  was. 

But  none  the  less  we’ll  this  forgive 
As  innocent  pretense 
But  can  we  let  such  “verse"  to  live 
Without  a jot  of  sense? 

On  the  whole,  Runnemede,  we  think  not. 

OKAY,  WE  SAW  IT  TOO 
by  Herbert  A.  Kushner 

Dear  Editor:  Your  typesetters  seem  to  have  mastered  that 
which  the  best  of  our  modern  scientists  dare  not  even  consider, 
reetizing  that  it  is  beyond  human  power  at  this  time.  The  neat 
little  trick  to  which  I refer  is  the  miraculous  ability  to  change 
temporal  distance  to  that  of  space.  Plainly:  YEARS  to  MILtS 
on  the  contents  page.  When  will  the  long  list  of  TWS  won* 
ders  cease? 

"Hey,  bub."  says  Kushner,  rolling  up  his  sleeves  and  flex* 
ing  his  mighry  (7)  muscles,  "since  when  is  Heinlein  a blade 
addict?"  From  what  i have  read  of  Robert  H's  work  I get 
the  impression  of  a particularly  well-balanced  $*f  author. 
Notice  the  emphasis  on  S-F.  Hardly,  If  ever,  does  the  sword 
—last  stand  of  the  nostalgic  (Def.— A pain  in  the  back)  fan- 
tasy author— find  its  way  into  good  S-F.  I cite  Harness  as  the 
on^  exception. 

This  month's  stories  clearly  resolve  themselves  into  clearly 
defined  o^der. 

1.  "The  pillows"— St.  Clair.  This  story  happened  to  hit  the 
right  psychological  spot  at  the  right  time. 

2.  "No  Hiding  Place" — Cartmill  missed  the  first  four  in 
this  series.  This  one,  however,  clicked. 

3.  "The  Strangest  Bedfellows*'— Morrison,  mediocre  story. 

4.  "Coffins  to  Mars" — Gallun  (yawn). 

5.  "Precognition" — Reynolds,  "The  Reversed  Man" — Clarke, 
and  "Sunday  Is  Three  Thousand  Years  Away"— Jones,  are 
equally  poor. 

TRS  was  unusually  interesting  this  time.  You've  got  a won- 
detful  bunch  of  fans  rooting  for  you.  A mag  like  that  can't 
lose. 

As  for  the  cover — oh  well,  maybe  some  day  (sigh). — 1501 
West  Lexington  Street,  Baltimore  23,  Maryland. 

You  should  read  Robert  A.  (!)  Heinlein’a 
BEYOND  THIS  HORIZON.  Fantasy  Press, 


Reading,  Pennsylvania,  1948,  SS.OO,  since 
you  seemingly  refuse  to  include  him  in  the 
swordplay  boys.  . 

OPERATION  F 

by  Captain  Kenneth  F.  Slater 

Dear  Editoi:  A long  time  and  much  water  since  I last 
managed  to  push  a complimentary  letter  in  your  direction 
but  here  we  are  at  last.  (Note  the  water  referred  to  ebove 
was  suitably  diluted  by  whisky,  gin.  or  brandy,  according 
to  which  bottle  was  nearest.) 

I should  double  space,  shouldn't  I?  Just  to  help — and  you  do 
deserve  it.  FANTASTIC  STORY  QUARTERLY!  WONDER  STORY 
ANNUALI  Not  to  forget  the  good  old  faithful  TWS/SS  twins. 
Best  production  in  appearance  was  WSA,  trimmed  edges  no 
tessi  The  first  copy  I got  I just  thought  some  fan  had  been 
thoughtful— but  then  I got  more  and  more  the  same.  All 
trimmedi 

By  the  by.  many  thanks  to  all  USA  fans  who  have  taken 
up  the  book-swapping  game  seriously.  To  be  honest  the 
folk  have  rallied  round  so  dern  well  this  time  that  I am 
getting  way  behind  with  sending  the  return  stuff.  But  I'll 
get  it  done  in  time. 

However,  to  the  meat— and  by  n>eat  I mean  that  horrible 
bit  of  canned  beef  that  came  down  the  mass  production 
line  from  the  pen  of  one  Ray  Bradbury.  I'll  admit  that  Ray 
can  write.  I admire  his  writing— but  please,  Mr.  Editor, 
tell  him  to  add  a fourth  plot  to  his  string.  His  present 
three  are  worn  out.  I don't  really  need  to  list  'em,  do  I? 

However  Ed  (Save  the  World)  Hamilton  came  up  with  a 
fine  story  tn  THE  CITY  AT  WORLD'S  END.  If  the  promised 
(threatened?)  Capt.  Future  yarn  is  as  good,  I will  bow 
three  times  to  the  north,  and  take  back  all  my  hard  words 
about  C.F.  By  the  by,  I don't  seem  to  have  got  my  hard  words 
on  that  printed,  do  1?  Pity,  PIt)f,  Pity. 

Reverting  to  slightly  older  things— I had  no  complaints 
about  the  main  portion  of  TWS  June  issue.  SUNDAY  IS 
THREE  THOUSAND  YEARS  AWAY  was  a very  nice  yarn, 
which  i thoroughly  eni^ed.  Mr.  Jones  seems  to  have  mas- 
tered the  art  of  plot  within  plot  which  makes  such  excellent 
science  fiction.  It  also  makes  equally  excellent  tales  of  other 
kinds,  and  so  I must  refute  the  claim  made  by  some  fans 
that  a certain  author  of  sf  originated  the  idea.  It  goes  back 
way,  way,  before  then.  Just  how  far  back  I don't  have  a 
clue,  but  it  is  probably  as  old  as  fiction. 

Wat  also  pleased  to  see  Oeve  Cartmill  In  the  running 
with  another  SPACE  SALVAGE  story,  although  this  was  not 
the  best  ot  the  series. 

Sorry  that  no  British  fan  dubs  managed  to  get  themselves 
listed  in  the  July  SS.  I personally  was  too  darn  busy  trying 
to  catch  up  on  my  personal  mail  to  write  anything— and  any- 
way I am  not  an  official  representative  of  any  of  them  at 
present— but  methinks  that  the  individuelity  of  the  Briton 
(some  folk  call  it  sheer  cussedness)  has  conquered  regimen- 
tation. 

However,  it  would  seem  that  the  boys  are  co-operating 
to  the  extent  of  arranging  a Convention  in  London,  tor  I9SI, 
at  which  it  is  hoped  many  European  fans  will  attend.  Guest 
of  honor  is  to  be  no  less  than  L.  Sprague  da  Camp.  Let 
us  hope  all  goes  well  and  that  as  many  USA  fans  (who  can 
convince  their  firms  they  will  make  good  representatives  (or 
the  Festival  of  Britain)  as  possible  will  attend.  It  would 
appear  that  the  Government  is  arranging  the  Festival  of 
Britain  to  coincide  with  the  fan-vention.  Or  should  it  ba  the 
other  way  around? 

Dame  Runx>r  tells  me  at  long  last  the  Australian  boys  hava 
a scifiction  mag  down  that  way,  titled  THRILLS.  Hope  it 
stays,  for  those  folks  are  even  harder  pressed  for  readable 
material  than  we  Britpns. 

Also,  you  will  possibly  be  pleased  to  note  that  the  fan- 
financM  Nova  Publications  are  bringing  out  a second  pro- 
mag in  UK.  But  we  have  a long  way  to  go  to  equal  the 
number  of  mags  in  the  USA  field.  However.  I don't  think, 
judging  by  the  limited  appeal  of  certain  of  them,  that  you'll 
find  competition  pressing  for  a tong  time  yet. 

Reverting  to  Dame  Rumor,  she  tells  me  that  TWS/SS  may 
go  monthlyl  Any  truth  In  that  idea?  Dame  Rumor  is  not  re* 
liable  . . . after  all,  she  Is  the  girl  who  said  a Universal 
Joint  was  a place  any  mug  could  get  in.  wasn't  she?  But 
that  little  monthly  schema  is  one  thing  I'd  like  to  believe 
in,  I would.  Best  of  luck,  and  if  possible,  make  it  fartnightlyl 
(No  comic  strips,  thot)— l3Gp,  R.P.C.,  B.A.O.R.,  23. 

Thanks  for  tb«  nice  note  but  this  two-in- 
one  letter  business  must  not  become  a habit. 


THE  CITADEL  OF  LOST  AGES 


Next 

Issue 


150 


By  LEIGH 
BRACKETT 


people.  Unfortunately  we  shall  not  be  com- 
ing out  monthly  so  Dame  Rumor  (?)  alack 
speaks  falsely.  For  the  rest,  thanks  for  the 
nice  informative  chatty  missive,  Ken — and 
get  us  off  others  in  the  months  to  come, 
please.  We  like  to  have  you  give  our  U.S. 
readers  word  of  what  is  happening  i»  other 
sections  of  the  fanworld. 

BLUE  PENCIL  YELP 
by  Vernon  L.  McCain 

Deor  Editor:  Say  Ed.  I don't  mind  your  doing  a little  dele* 
tion  and  censoring  on  my  letters  (after  all.  it  IS  your  maga* 
sine).  But  when  you  go  changing  the  little  nuances  of  my 
meaning,  I draw  the  line. 

I am  referring  to  the  June  issue,  where  you  changed  my 
use  of  the  word  (CENSORED)*  to  daring.  And  I want  you  to 
know  that  the  covers  on  my  protected  magazine  were  not 
going  to  be  daring  at  all.  They  were  going  to  be  downright 
(CENSORED)*  which  is  a completely  different  thing. 

Anyway,  t didn't  come  right  out  and  say  your  Bergey  covers 
were  (CENSORED)*.  I rust  said  I'd  make  them  (CENSORED). 
On  my  magazine.  And  when  I say  (CENi^RED)*  I mean 
(CENSORED)*.  Incidentally,  that  was  the  first  time  l*d  eve* 
realized  (CENSORED)*  was  a "narsty"  word.  It  reminds  me 
of  the  neat  little  job  of  substitufion  one  of  the  pocket- 
edition  companies  did  In  the  version  of  Dashiell  Hammett's 
"Thin  Mfjn." 

Setting  down  to  the  current  issue,  I observe  that  Raymond 
Z.  Gallun  has  been  paying  as  close  attention  to  Bradbury 
M we  fans  have.  Only  two  things  distinguish  this  from  a 
Bradbury  story.  It  is  a novelet  and  it  has  too  large  a cast 
of  cha'acters  to  have  come  from  the  typewriter  of  California 
Ray. 

Otherwise  it  is  completely  Brodburyish.  even  to  the  location. 
Not  that  we  should  complain  too  much.  Sallun  did  quite  a 
nice  iob  and  I suppose  Gallun  writing  Bradbury  novelets  is 
better  than  no  Bradbury  novelets  at  alt.  But  honest  Ray 
(Gallun,  that  is),  you're  a pretty  good  writer  ort  your  own. 

Being  addicted  to  realty  good  humorous  stories,  however, 
award  for  the  best  of  the  month  must  go  to  "The  Strangest 
Bedfellows."  By  the  way.  who  is  William  Morrison?  The  name 
sounds  familiar  but  I don't  recall  any  outstanding  stories  of 
the  past  by  him. 

Which  is  all  thab  I find  commentwofthy  in  this  issue  so  1 
shall  stop  right  here.  Aren't  you  the  lucky  ones,  though?— 
c/o  Western  Union,  Port  Townsend,  Washington. 


• Vulgar 

To  the  best  of  our  knowledge  it  was  an 
overeager  proofreader  rather  than  our- 
selves who  made  the  alteration  you  so  ob- 
ject to  in  the  June  issue  missive.  Actually, 
what  odds  does  it  make? 

William  Morrison  has  been  writing  de- 
tective and  science  fiction  since  well  before 
the  war.  He  even  did  one  of  the  last  Brett 
Sterling  CAPTAIN  FUTURE  novels— 
more  than  one,  we  believe.  Since  getting 
out  of  service  he  has  concentrated  on  short- 
er stuff. 

DID  ANYBODY  MISS  ME? 
by  W.  Paul  Gonley 

Dear  Witor:  Yes,  ft*$  1.  I’m  back,  at  lost—with  leisure  to 
read  science-fiction  and  time  to  plague  editors  with  over- 
sized letters — all  that's  needed  is  the  money  to  buy  all  the 
science-fantasy  mags  that  seem  fo  be  popping  up  on  the 
stands  these  days. 

Well,  let’s  get  the  dirty  work  over  with  right  away.  The 
stories — it's  no  use  saying  they  were  good  because  you  al- 
ready know  that,  although  from  the  letters  you  receive  from 
fans  you  might  sometimes  entertain  serious  doubts.  Enough, 
however,  of  whimsy  for  the  moment. 

First  of  all,  COFFINS  TO  MARS.  Prom  your  preview  of 
this  one  in  the  previous  issue  I expected  something  special. 
In  spite  of  what  most  fans  say  ye  edde  Is  a pr^ty  oood 
fudge  of  fontosy,  except  ir»  my  case,  where  he  rejects  all  my 
manuscripts  (that's  not  fair,  (or  only  one  was  rejected  two 


years  or  so  ago  and  that  one  so  bad  that  I wouldn't  even  ' 
accept  it  now  for  my  fanzine,  "Fan-Fare"). 

You  already  said  what  I would  have  said-pthat  COFFINS  ' 
TO  MARS  is  whet  we  all  have  been  awaiting  from  Ray 
Bradbury,  yet  which  has  net  been  forthcoming.  I haven't  seen 
this  author  much  before  though  I have  deduced  that  he  is 
one  of  the  old  guard.  He  is  coming  back,  no?  A lot  of  the 
old  s-f  writers  seem  to  be  returning  to  the  fold  these  days. 

SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILES  AWAY  (a  sweet 
story  to  read  on  a Saturday)  will  have  to  fall  back  to  second 
place  in  this  briet  (7)  discussion  of  this  month's  offerings. 
Until  the  last  few  pages  it  was  a good  start  on.  say,  a 
60,000  word  novel — but  still  it  was  excellent. 

NO  HiDiNG  PLACE  was  good  enough  to  bag  third  place. 

I would  like  this  Cartnnill  fellow  except  that  his  style  is 
rather  'egged.  Maybe  it's  artificial  in  this  case,  since  it 
provides  the  correct  mood  for  the  background  of  this 
series.  But  all  the  same  I dislike  It. 

The  short  stories  were  all  about  as  good  as  each  other, 
with  perhaps  THE  REVERSED  MAN  and  THE  STRANGEST 
BEDFELLOWS  having  a slight  edge.  Even  "Wonder  Oddities'* 
was  good  this  time,  with  that  notation  about  the  human  body 
increasing  in  value. 

Now  to  the  Important  part  of  the  issue— THE  READER 
SPEAKS.  I see  I made  the  grade  but  Til  wager  that  if  the 
letter  had  been  by  a completely  unknown  neofan  it  would 
have  graced  the  editoriel  wastebasket.  Well,  the  reason  for 
the  rather  unguarded  P.  S.  may  be  obvious  by  this  time — 
whether  It  is  or  not.  its  purpose  has  either  been  consummated 
or  has  failed.  The  idea  was  to  stir  up  some  interest  in  ESP 
or  what  is  commonly  referred  to  as  ESP— maybe  even  a feud 
—but  who  has  rime  for  feuds  these  days! 

I guess  if  Hammond  can  continue  his  advertising  via  TRP, 

I may  as  well  get  *n  some  free  publicity  too.  By  this  time 
ye  edde  has  probably  reviewed  the  first  two  issues  of  m/ 
mag,  FAN-FARE.  I have  my  doubts  as  to  which  portion 
of  the  listing  they  will  enhance  but  that's  beside  the  point. 
The  point  is  that  "Fan-Fare."  starting  with  the  third  issue,  it 
to  be  mimeegraphed.  now  that  I have  a machine. 

F-F,  for  the  edification  of  those  >^o  have  not  yet  fallen 
prey  to  my  advertising  campaigns,  is  20  pages  long  including 
a cover,  contents  page  & editorial,  and  letters.  Otherwise  if 
consists  of  fiction  (fantasy,  s-f,  and  weird)  by  amateurs,  of 
all  lengths  up  to  10.000  words.  Poetry  is  accepted  in  small 
amounts,  and  articles  will  be  rejected. 

Of  course  no  one  can  expeef  the  fiction  to  be  as  good  as 
pro  fiction — why  SHOULD  anyone  expect  the  plots  to  be  as 
good,  much  less  better?  Yet  that  is  what  ye  edde  gives  us  to 
believe  in  THE  FRYING  PAN!  True,  all  mags  are  limited  by 
what  their  authors  submit  but  a few  rejections  of  material 
merely  for  bad  plotting  might  have  some  effect  on  future 
submissions.  * 

Take  the  instance  of  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  GOD  CHULO., 
Now  I don’t  get  SCIENTIFANTASY  but  that  is  somethingi 
I hope  to  remedy  soon.  Vet,  is  it  as  bad  as  the  editor 
claims?  Certainly  it  does  not  equal  the  pro  stuff— if! 
should  not  because  the  author  is  not  a pro. 

There  Is  no  more  reason  for  amateur  fiction  to  be  beft-.'fj 
(in  any  way)  than  pro  fiction  than  there  is  for  Class  D baseballl 
teams  to  bo  better  than,  let  us  say,  the  Boston  Red  Sonj 
(being  partial  to  same)  or  than  there  >s  for  a college  (oot«i 
ball  or  basketball  team  to  be  better  than  a professional.! 

People  improve  in  somelhii>g,  whether  it  be  a sport  on 
whether  it  be  plotting  and  writing— and  it  is  natural  for  th«i 
output  of  a pro  author  to  be  for  superior  to  the  crud  ho' 
hacked  out  ten  years  previously.  Likewise  the  rnaterlal  ama- 
teur authors  ore  writing  In  the  present  day  will  be  far  in- 
ferior to  what  those  authors  will  be  doing  a docade  or  twOi 
from  now.  Practice  makes  perfect  and  the  pros  hove  had’ 
more  practice  than  the  amateur  writers.  Accordingly  thelri 
plots  should  be  better,  their  treatment  should  be  moral 
molure. 

In  other  words  the  amateur  writers  of  today  are  doin^i 
far  better  than  could  be  expected  of  them.  Once  in  a whtlal 
they  fall.  Tne  some  can  be  said  of  the  professionals. 

Besides,  a lot  of  fanzines  aren’t  too  particular  about  the; 
stuff  they  publish.  Many  amateurs  haven't  an  editor  to  reject' 
their  stuff  when  it's  unworthy  as  the  pros  do. 

'There  are  exceptions  to  aM  of  this.  A lot  of  fanzine  ediforsi 
do  reject  manuscripts.  The  trouble  Is  all  of  fhem  do  not* 
and  among  those  that  do  the  standard  of  value  is  less  defined! 
than  among  the  professional  editors. 

Therefore,  instead  of  condemning  (or  satirizing)  a bad 
amateur  story  (which,  after  all.  is  only  to  be  expected  fron>. 
aD  these  conditions),  why  not  merely  ignore  It  and  spend 
your  time  praising  the  outstanding  ones. 

Arn  I wrong?  Maybe — but  I don’t  think  so.  I await  your 
answer  with  anticipation. 

Anyhow,  keep  the  FRYING  PAN.  I'm  not  in  favor  (as  you 
may  have  guessed  from  the  above)  of  condemning  ever/ 
average  fan  story  but  some  of  the  worse  efforts  SHOULD 
be  pointed  out  as  such  and  ye  edde  has  a propensity  for 
doing  such.  If  that  weren't  done  lines  and  stories  might' 
tend  to  decline  slightly.  And.  as  you  pointed  out,  THE 
FRYING  PAN  is  not  always  critical. 

On  the  other  hand,  why  not  expand  the  FRYING  PAN  to 
include  a listing  simitar  to  the  one  in  SS?  It  would,  as- 
someone  mentioned,  definitely  cut  down  the  time  lag.  FAN-j 


FAAE  is  going  to  have  a supernal  Anniversary  issue  for 
January,  and  in  order  to  have  it  reviewed  at  that 

time  I'm  already  making  plans  to  have  it  done  by  October 
or  sooner,  so  a«  to  send  you  a pre-pub  copy. 

Enough  of  thip~back  to  TftS  for  a few  last  words.  Mr. 
Bradley  would  seem  to  have  his  hands  full — let's  hope  he 
prefers  swords  too.  Anyway  la  Zimmer-Bradley  has  the 
wrong  kfea  about  one  thing-^l  know  what  she  means  by  the 
strange  nostalgia  for  an  alien  world  and  I think  she  is 
wrong  about  women  being  more  sensitive  to  the  feeling  than 
men.  The  men  just  don't  talk  about  it  so  much,  that's  all.— 
119  Ward  Road,  North  Tonawanda,  New  York. 

Skipping  your  various  other  beeves  and 
queries,  W.  Paul,  let’s  concentrate  on  this 
FRYING  PAN  panning.  We  believe  the  title 
tells  the  purpose. 

Actually,  when  we  decided  that  TWS 
needed  a department  devoted  to  fanzines  to 
mate  up  with  SS,  we  had  just  finished  a 
review  ccdumn  and  were  somewhat  a-wear- 
ied  of  some  of  the  fan  freneticisms,  feuds, 
follies  and  so  on  which  had  so  recently  been 
steam-rollering  over  us. 

We  decided  in  a good  humored  way  to 
p<Ae  a bit  of  fun  at  them,  even  to  point  out 
an  occasional  lapse  of  taste  or  grammar. 
Sometimes  even  to  hand  out  a bit  of  crisp 
bacon  by  way  of  praise.  We  had  and  have 
no  intention  of  running  two  fanzine  re- 
views— have  mercy,  fellows,  on  ye  generalle 
readder! 

And  don’t  take  TFP  too  much  to  heart 
when  it  barks  at  your  effort.  It  has  no 
more  real  bite  than  a two-day-old  puppy — 
though  it  may  be  that  it  is  capable  of  cre- 
ating as  many  messes — ^fanwise,  that  is.  We 
certainly  hope  so. 

VAGUE  SHIVERS 
by  Roy  TockeH 

DMr  Edifor:  Yo«<  edrfoHct  ra  tii«  June  TWS  wes,  m «*ueL 
fhought  provoking.  I like  tkese  editorieb  of  yours  even  if  i 
violently  disegree  witk  them  sometimes.  Personally  I do  not 
fear  the  H-bomb  because  it  is  something  new  end  unknown. 
I fear  !t  because  I have  a vague  idee  of  its  potentialities. 
However,  if  we  can  conquer  our  fear  of  our  fellow  men 
we  will  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  bomb.  And  if  we 
^on't  about  umphteen  millions  of  us  will  never  know  the 
difference  anyway. 

You  say  that 'we  are  living  in  an  era^  of  snowballing  scien- 
tific expansion.  Uh-huh.  How  Iona  wlH  it  be  before  the  snow- 
ball stops  rolling  though?  In  mis  age,  where  the  illusion 
of  security  is  missing,  contact  between  the  scientists  of 
various  nations  is  out  of  the  question.  Somebody  might 
let  slip  a military  secret,  you  know.  Without  the  free 
passage  of  ideas  between  scientists  there  is  a possibility  of 
this  snowball  slowing  down  and  eventually  stopping  com- 
pletely. 

Congratulations  on  getting  Orban  on  your  roster  of  artists. 
Why  not  let  him  do  a cover? 

The  June  issue  of  TWS  was  very  good.  I especietly  IHred 
"Sunday  Is  3000  Years  Away."  The  rest  were  good  with  the 

gossible  exception  of  "Coffuts  to  Mars."  I didn't  finish  it. 

Iscovering  that  the  principal  character  is  named  "Rube" 
automatically  set  me  against  It.  However,  I'M  hove  another 
go  at  reading  it  in  a couple  days. 

Most  noticeable  thing  about  this  issue  is  the  absence 
of  Rnlay.  Not  entirely  regrettable  either.  I admire  his  work 
but  he  slips  badly  when  he  turns  from  the  ^so-called  pure 
fantasy  to  science-fiction.  Who  did  the  illos  for  "The 
Strengesl  Bedfellows"? 

Tch.  you  are  geffng  ahead  of  youfseff  again.  In  TRS  you 
say  mat  the  Space  Selvage  series  wound  up  "in  our  lest 
issue."  Uh-huh. 

For  some  reason  I liked  Fred  Remus's  poem  and  your 
addendum  thereto.  Mayhep  something  wIH  be  done  about 
getting  space  flight  really  started  Mfore  too  tong.  The 
popularity  of  science  fiction  is  rocketing  skyvrerd  and  there 
rs  a resn^  possibility  that  in  years  to  come  a greet  many 


people  will  begin  to  be  curious  about  our  planetary  neigh- 
bors and  the  pressure  of  that  vague  something  celled  public 
opinion  will  force  interplanetary  exploration.  { said  it  was 
a remote  possibilitVj  didn't  I? 

The  rising  popularity  of  scienee-ftcfion  scares  me  though. 
It  may  be  that  the  prediction  of  Brother  Jakes  will  be  borne 
out.  I can  see  it  now.  "Passion  on  Pluto.  A thrilling  sto<;  of 
love  at  the  outermost  edge  of  the  solar  system."  "Sam 
Shovel  and  the  Martian  Sandhoq  Caper."  UghI  Fans  will 
discover  e way  to  get  off  the  eerih  just  to  escape  something 
like  that.  The  thought  chills  me. 

With  the  exception  of  a couple  of  stinkers  ("The  Lady  b A 
Witch,"  for  instance)  you've  done  a good  job  with  TWS 
and  SS.  If  you  ever  print  "Passion  on  Pluto"  I'll  soe  fo  it 
that  you  have  to  read  the  thing  a thousand  times. 

See^  you  next  month  in  STARTLING. — 1991  21st  Avenue,  San 
Francisco  16.  California. 

Don’t  worry  too  much  about  the  expan- 
sion of  stf.  Contrary  to  the  beliefs  of  some 
readers  it  is  not  nearly  the  mystic  chapter 
of  whatchamacallit  that  some  of  you  seem 
to  think  it.  A good  many  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands seem  to  understand  it  and  on  the 
whole  like  it  as  it  is. 

So  “Sam  Shovel”  and  “The  Pasha  of 
Pluto”  are  no  more  likely  to  turn  up  in  the 
near  future  than  they  have  been  in  the 
past.  And,  Roy,  thanks  for  a pleasant 
epistle. 

PRETTY  GOOD 
by  James  Lewis 

D«ar  Ed:  Except  for  fhot  monstrosity  on  the  front  the 
June  issue  was  pretty  good  ffor  a change).  I enjoyed  the 
Jones  novel  very  much  though  I wes  three  pa^s  ahead  of 
the  horo  through  the  whole  story.  No  Hiding  nace  was  the 
onlv  Cortmill  story  I ever  liked. 

ft  was  just  luc^  for  Jake  though  that  those  big  hairy 
black  things  (editors,  mayhap???)  were  well  versed  m tele- 
port. Well,  huzza  for  Ray  Gallun  for  accurately  describing  Mars 
for  once.  The  next  best  stories  were,  respectively.  "The  Pil- 
lows," "Precognition."  "The  Reversed  Man"  and  "The 
Strangest  Bedfellows.'' 

For  someone  who  states  that  only  intelligent  letters  wiU 
be  printed  your  letter  column  seems  to  print  a lot  of  rather— 
er — silly  letters.  Don't  get  me  wrong.  I enjoy  them  immensely. 
It  just  seemed  strange,  thas  all.— 29-10  BuMer  St.,  E.  Elm- 
hursf.  N.  Y. 

P.S.  In  what  ish  of  SS  did  N.  Daniels'  "Speak  of  the 
Devil"  appear? 

Norm  Daniels’  SPEAK  OF  THE  DEVIL 
appeared  in  the  March,  1943,  issue  of 
STARTLING  STORIES.  His  other  SS 
novel  (with  the  exception  of  THE  LADY 
IS  A WITCH)  appeared  earlier  under  the 
title  of  THE  GREAT  EGO.  He  has  given 
most  of  his  career  to  detective  mystery  and 
air-'ivar  work. 


UP  FOR  REPRINT? 
by  Charles  Irons 


Dear  Editor:  Congratulations  on  ^another  excelfont  Issue. 
I don't  like  fo  comment  on  the  stories  as  it  is  all  a matter 
of  opinion  buf  I would  tike  to  say  they  wore  all  excellent.  One 
thing  I would  like  to  mention  is  that  I certainly  enjoyed  Cleve 
Certmill's  Space  Selvage  series.  It  is  one  of  Hie  best  you 
heve  had  in  the  past  two  or  thrae  years. 

I have  been  reeding  your  megezines  for  the  paet  yeor  and 
a half.  In  that  time  I have  reed  some  very  enjoyable  stories. 
In  my  opinion  the  following  stories  should  be  put  up  for  re* 
print  a few  years  from  now: 

AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT,  SS. 

THE  WEAPON  SHOPS  OF  ISHER,  TWS. 

THE  BLACK  GALAXY.  SS. 

FLIGHT  INTO  YESTERDAY,  SS, 

S£A  WNeS  Of  M^«S,  T^, 


152 


FURY  FROM  LILLIPUT,  TWS. 

HON  OF  COMARRE.  TWS. 

TME  LONELY  PLA»NET,  TWS. 

THE  SHADOW  MEN.  SS. 

THE  RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  FUTURE.  S$. 

PLANET  OF  THE  SMALL  MEN.  TWS. 

THERE  SHALL  BE  NO  DARKNESS.  TWS. 

V/INE  OF  THE  DREAMERS.  SS. 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  SUN,  SS. 

COFFINS  TO  MARS.  TWS. 

One  story  I enioyed  that  appeared  before  I started  readtno 
science  ftctlon  was  THE  IRRITATED  PEOPLE  by  Ray  Brad- 
bury. The  humorous  type  of  story  does  not  appear  too  often. 

I wish  Mr.  Bradbury  would  write  more. 

i am  glad  to  see  your  two  reprint  magazines.  I enioyed 
the  stories  in  them  immensely.— New  Egypt,  New  Jersey. 

Let’s  see — your  list  of  authors  include  in 
the  order  given — Arthur  C.  Clarke,  A.  E. 
van  Vogt,  Murray  Leinster,  Charles  L.  Har- 
ness, Leigh  Brackett,  Leinster,  Clarke, 
Leinster,  van  Vogt,  Edmond  Hamilton, 
Leinster,  James  Blish,  John  D.  MacDon- 
ald, Hamilton  and  Raymond  Z.  Gallun. 

And  what  about  Kuttner?  Especially  his 
Hogbens  if  you  like  stf  humor?  We  agree 
about  Bradbury’s  TIP.  Whenever  we  hear 
Dinah  Shore  or  some  other  canary  warble, 
'Tve  got  those  mad  about  him,  sad  about 
him,  etc.,  blues”  we  see  that  one  all  over 
again. 

TRAVEL  WITH  BURROUGHS 
by  Vernell  Coriell 

Deer  Sir:  Regarding  your  comments  about  the  Burroughs 
Bulletin  in  the  April  issue  of  your  magazine.  In  all  lairnass 
I would  like  for  it  to  be  brought  to  the  attention  of  the 
leaders  of  TWS  that  to  date  ten  issues  of  the  Bulletin  have 
been  published  and  only  three  of  these  have  reviewed  motion 
pictures.  Two  of  the  reviews  were  of  TARZAN  films  and  the 
third  was  of  a rather  antique  production  entitled  THE  LION 
MAN,  which  starred  Charles  Loucheur  and  was  based  on 
ERS’s  novel  THE  LAD  AND  THE  LION. 

I admit  that  6B#9  deals  a good  deal  with  the  new 
T.irzan,  Lex  Barker,  but  it  was  my  opinion  that  the  many 
followers  of  the  Burroughs  stories,  both  book  and  film  ver- 
sions. would  be  interested  in  an  article  about  the  tenth 
actor  to  portray  the  ape-man  on  the  screen.  Perhaps  I was 
wrong — but  I want  to  make  it  clear  that  the  BB  is  not  a 
movie  fanzine  and  if  positively  is  not  tainted  with  com- 
mercialism! 

The  Bulletin  is  published  and  paid  for  by  myself  and 
except  for  a very  few  donations  by  interested  fans  I have 
received  no  payment  for  the  8B  from  any  source — including 
Mr.  Lesser's  studio!  The  68  is  still  distributed  to  Burroughs 
fans  free  of  charge  and  if  something  that  is  GIVEN  away 
with  nothing  but  good  wiU  expected  in  return,  is  commercial- 
ism then  someone  had  better  re-write  Mr.  Webster's  dic- 
tionary, 

I agree  with  you  that  Stfan  publishing  should  be  a task 
of  devotion  to  stf  and  fantasy.  Welt,  the  BB  is  a task  of 
devotion  to  Mr.  Burroughs'  work  and  certainly  a great  many 
of  ERB's  works  are  stf— THE  MOON  MAID.  LAND  THAT 
TIME  FORGOT.  THE  MONSTER  MEN.  SYNTHETIC  MEN 
OF  MARS  and  others.  Stf  appears  quite  freauently  in  the 
Torzan  books  too — ^Tarzan's  reduction  in  size  by  THE  ANT 
MEN.  cell-transplantation  in  THE  LION  MAN  and  TARZAN 
AT  THE  EARTH^S  CORE  to  name  a few. 

Since  the  publication  of  BB  #9  I have  personally  met  Mr. 
Burroughs  and  eight  of  the  ten  screen  Tarzant.  whom  I in- 
terviewed (including  Lex  Barker,  who  asked  me  to  correct 
the  statement  about  him  having  attended  Princeton)  and  I 
intended  to  publish  these  Interviews  In  future  issues  of  the 
BB  along  with  rare  photos  of  the  early  Tarzans. 

I think  the  ERB  fans  are  interested  in  the  long  line  of 
actors  who  have^  portrayed  Tarzan — and  there  is  certainly 
nothing  commercial  at  this  late  date,  in  the  films  of  Elmo 
Lincoln,  Frank  Merrill,  etc.  But  if  I’m  wrong  I'd  like  the 
fans  to  let  me  know.  However,  when  other  fanzines  start 
reviewing  DESTINATION  MOON  and  other  forthcoming  Stf 
films,  will  they  too.  be  accused  of  having  the  "taint  of 
commercialism''  in  their  zines? 

The  BB  is  now  distributed  to  over  500  people,  from  the 
12  year  old  fan  to  the  mature  and  intellig^ent  fan  who  finds 
ERB's  works  "good  reading."  Also  a nuinber  of  famous  atf 
and  fantasy  aulhors  ore  or  hove  been  Burroughs  fans — Nelson 
lend,  Ray  Brodbury,  HPL  to  mivm  a few. 


Anyway  I have  been  sending  you  the  88  for  reviews  so  I 
could  absorb  your  criflcal  remarks  and  perlMps  improve 
on  future  issues  of  the  BB  (isn't  that  the  idea  of  THE  FRYING 
PAN  in  the  first  place?}.  Well,  thank  you  for  your  comments 
and  under  separate  cover  I am  sending  you  a copy  of  BB 
#10. 

Oh  yes,  If  you  do  not  know  who  Professor  Arthur  Maxon  of 
Cornell  University  is.  iust  ask  your  large  son  (aged  M)  I’m 
sure  he  can  enlighten  you. 

Frankly,  I think  that  under  the  circumstances  your  "punches" 
are  a bit  lower  than  the  BB's  type  of  exploitation.  And  in 
defense  of  myself  and  the  BB  I’d  like  to  quote  from  the  late 
Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle. 

I have  served  my  simple  plan. 

If  I bring  one  hour  of  joy, 

To  the  boy  who  is  half  a man. 

And  the  man  who  is  half  a boy. 

That  is  all  I intend  doing  with  the  BB,  to  pass  pn  the 
enjoyment  I get  out  of  it. — I3H  Janssen  St..  Pekin,  IIHnoIs. 

P.S.  The  BB  will  continue  being  sent  to  you  and  one  of 
these  days  It  will  make  the  "A"  listing. 

Well,  we  apologize,  Mr.  Coriell.  Somehow 
we  seem  to  have  added  things  up  wrongly 
where  your  Bulletin  is  concerned.  And  in- 
cidentally, since  Mr.  Burroughs’  death  ap- 
parently occurred  between  your  writing  of 
this  letter  and  our  getting  it  into  print, 
we  should  like  to  take  time  out  right  now  to 
say  that  we  regret  his  demise  greatly — 
both  as  an  stf  editor  and  a one-time  Tarzan 
reader  and  fan. 

Thanks  for  explaining  things  more  fully 
and  for  continuing  to  send  the  BB. 

VANISHED  HIGH 
by  Tom  Covington 

Dear  Editor:  Guess  what.  For  once  I'm  not  going  to  gripe 
about  your  cover  policy.  You  know  how  I feel  about  it  and 
why  I feel  that  way,  so  that's  that. 

Yha  lead-story  high  that  you  hit  with  "Wine  of  the  Dream- 
ers" in  SS  seems  to  have  vanished.  "Sunday  Is  Three  Thou- 
sand Miles  Away"  IS  above  average  though.  In  fact  it’s  al- 
most good 

Yippeel  At  last  the  Space  Salvage  series  is  ended  (I  hope) 
and  what  an  ending.  "No  Hiding  Place"  ties  with  two  other 
stories  for  best  in  this  issue.  The  black  and  hairy  are  swell. 
I'd  like  to  have  one  of  them  for  a pet.  They're  one  of  the 
things  that  made  Cartmill's  story  good. 

Now  that  the  Space  Salvage  senes  is  over.  I'm  looking  for- 
ward to  some  swell  humorous  shots  by  Cartmill, 

The  other  novelet.  "Coffins  to  Mars*'  was  good  too.  Gallun 
writes  in  a smooth,  almost  beautiful  style. 

I apologize  for  all  the  nasty  things  I’ve  said  about  St. 
Clair.  "The  Pillows"  completely  remodeled  my  opinion  of 
her  stories.  I only  hope  that  she  can  maintain  the  pace. 

Well,  "No  Hiding  Place."  "Coffins  to  Mars”  and  "The 
Pillows."  were  the  three  best  stories  In  this  issue.  In  fact,  the 
three  best  stories  in  an  exceptionally  good  issue.  But,  as  you 
said  in  "The  Frying  Pan,"  a true  (ahemm)  fan  can  always 
find  something  to  criticize.  My  uncomplimentary  criticism  tor 
this  Issue  goes  to  Clarke's  (he's  one  of  my  favorite  authors 
too)  "The  Reversed  Man."  Consider  It  criticized. 

Also  Reynolds'  "Precognition." 

You  gave  the  I.  S.  F.  & C.  organ,  THE  EXPLORER  a "8" 
rating  In  your  fanzine  column  in  SS.^  Just  wait  till  you  get 
the  third  issue,  bub  It's  greatly  improved.— 315  Dawson 
Street,  Wilmington.  North  Carolina. 

Very  well,  with  folded  hands,  etc.,  we 
shall  wait  for  year  so-and-so  old  third 
issue.  If  it’s  as  entertaining  as  the  “man” 
of  the  same  numeral  you’ll  really  have  some- 
thing, Tom. 

TRADITIONAL 
by  Fred  Stuckey 

Dear  Sir:  It  seems  to  Im  some  sort  of  tradition  to  begin 
thjjs  kind  of  letter  with  *Mhis  is  the  first  time  I have  ever 
written  to  your  magll,  etc."  Consider  It  said.  When  you  get 
right  down  to  It  il's  true. 

ihe  main  reason  I am  writing  thi«  is  the  kettor  by  John 


163 


W.  Jai;M  ifl  Jime,  t9S0  U»««  o(  90od  ole  TWS  end  tfoirr 
riwarb  tWaof. 

Mr.  Jakes  divides  *'our  particular  field  of  attention*'  into 
Kra  types.  Science  Fiction  and  future  Fiction.  One  fiction 
about  science  and  the  other  fiction  about  the  Mure.  H 
seems  to  me  that  there  should  be  a third  type  in  there 
somewhere.  Fiction  about  science  AND  the  future.  ^ 

This  qives  those  that  like  pure  science-fiction  their  meat, 
those  that  like  future  fiction  theirs  and  those  that  like  a 
little  bit  of  both  theirs.  I prefer  the  latter  two  myself. 
Authors  are  getting  so  much  science  in  their  stones  nowadays 
the  ordinary  reader  hardly  knows  which  is  what. 

I also  agree  with  his  last  seven  paragraphs  most  em- 
phaticallv.  His  comments  on  war,  history,  heroes,  dictators 
and  mao  scientists  oo  ri^t  to  the  crux  <m  the  situation.  This 
letter,  Jakes,  should  have  been  set  up  in  large  type  in  your 
editorial  page. 

As  to  your  comments  on  Paul  Revere  and  Billy  the  Kid, 
so  what?  Maybe  they  weren't  everythina  history  tries  to 
make  them  out  but  they  were  a part  of  mat  history  lust  as 
heroes  and  villains  and  dictators  and  even  scientists,  med  or 
otherwise,  srill  be  a part  of  the  history  of  the  future.  Fans 
seem  to  ignore  the  fact  that  five  hundred  years  from  now 
people  win  be  i«t  as  human  as  they  ore  today.  Authors 
do  the  same. 

There  will  probably  be  HtHers  and  CoUn  Kelleys  and 
Ooeglai  MacArthurs  and  Winstoe  Churchills  aad  Ounkirks 
and  Wake  Islands  just  as  there  were  during  the  Second 
World  War.  There  will  probably  be  futuristic  Pant  Reveres 
end  Billy  the  Kids,  too. 

The  trouble  with  fans  is  that  they’re  In  a rut.  They  read  a 
story  along  thesa  lines  and  immediately  start  luting 
heck.  A few  might  grudgingly  admit  that  the  plot  was  pretty 
good  and  the  writing  ^ay  but,  they  add,  this  idea  is  so 
md  it's  putrid,  or  srords  to  that  affect.  Maybe  it  is  but 
whole  business  has  been  going  on  from  the  beginning  of 
time  and  wilt  probably  keep  on  going  on  to  the  end  el  it. 

WeH,  I'd  better  stop  commenting  on  someone  else's  letter 
end  sttcfc  in  a few  of  owi^  anent  the  June  ish. 

Believe  it  of  not  I kind  a like  Bergey.  His  cover  for  this 
ish  and  tha  test  one  were  pretty  good. 

Wbv  not  a few  of  those  future  itetion  stories  once  in  a 
while/  Stories  about  Star  travel  and  adventure  or  even  InUr- 
planetary  stories  would  be  a welcome  change  from  all  these 
time  travel  stories  and  such  we've  been  getting  lately. 

Why  not  have  more  stories  like  lemeter's  Kim  RendeU 
trilogy,  his  Bleck  Galaxy  and,  last  issue,  his  Planet  of  Small 
Mae.  How  about  rrore  stories  tike  Cd  Hamilton's  Star  of 
Life  in  S$^  and  Leigh  Brackett's  Mars  stories  about  those 
cities,  Valkis  and  Barrakesh  and  tha  others. 

Now  for  comments  on  the  stories  in  this  issue. 

NO  HIDING  PLACE  by  Cartmlll  was  the  best  in  the  series 
aed  best  in  the  issue. 

COFFINS  TO  MARS  by  Gallun  was  second.  Had  good 
diaracterization  and  tha  emotional  description  was  excellent. 

SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  MILES  AWAY  by  Jones 
comes  in  a belated  third.  This  was^  written  pretty  weH  but  I 
lust  couldn't  get  interested.  This  is  the  type  of  story  that 
has  been  used  too  much  in  your  megs  letely. 

Why  not  get  Jones  to  do  some  novels  or  novelets  like  the 
SEVEN  JEV^LS  OF  CHAMAR  he  did  for  a competitor  whkh 
specielizes  in  adventure  STF  a few  yMrs  ago. 

I won't  commant  on  the  short  stories.  To  me  they  were  no 
better  and  eo  worse  than  your  usual  run  of  short  stories. 

Orban  was  okay  bet  he  can't  take  the  piece  of  Lawrence. 
The  rest  I won’t  even  mention.  Let’s  have  Lawrence  back 
•ext  inet,  huh? 

Hiese  comments^  on  the  Jane  issue  of  TWS  ere  strictiy  my 
gum  and  any  relafton  to  anyoee  else’s  is  purely  coincfdentai.>— 
(IB  Norih  Richard  Street,  Bedford,  Pennsylvenie. 

For  your  (utterly)  confidential  informa- 
tion it  so  happ«i8  that  we  have  some  yams 
of  the  type  you  yearn  for  coming  up.  In  De- 
cember we  shall  feature  THE  CITADEL  OF 
LOST  AGES  by  la  Brackett  as  already 
promised  and,  in  March,  OVERLORDS  OF 
MAXUS  by  Jack  Vance  and  I,  THE  UN- 
MORTAL by  Emmett  McDowell — all  of 
which  are  strong  on  the  adventure  side. 

And  in  the  November  STARTLING  the 
novel  will  be  THE  FIVE  GOLD  BANDS,  a 
galactic  hummer  by  Jack  Vance,  to  be 
followed  in  March,  1961,  1^  Leigh  Brack- 
ett’s grand  novel  THE  STARMBN  OF 
LLYRDIS.  Which  should  keep  things  un- 
der control  your  way  for  Ute  nonce.  OkayT 


SEVENTEEN 
by  Robert  L.  Moog,  Jl. 

Dear  Sir:  In  my  savenfean  (If)  years  of  reading  STF  (capifofs 
delibarafe)  this  is  the  first  letter  I have  ever  writtan  to  a read* 
ers'  department  but  your  June  issue  contained  a missiva  which 
1 fait  must  not  go  unanswered. 

I refer,  of  course,  to  that  penned  by  Clifford  Dye  in  which 
he  savs  everyone  writing  now  seems  to  be  sort  of  new  to 
stf.  It  s trvel  Alt  the  old  timers  have  been  struck  dumb  l«ri>o 
ever  said  they  were  smart?).  I guess  they  are  all  publishing 
fanmags  or  something.  So  1 guess  you  and  I will  have  to  pick 
up  the  torch  for  our  generation.  Cliff. 

Now  about  Wallace  West's  story,  LURE  OF  POLARIS — if 
you  will  turn  with  me  to  the  file  of  back  issues  of  a certain 
mag  whose  editor  had  the  pen  name  of  Don  Stuart  not  too 
long  ago,  in  the  year  1936  you  find  a short  story  called  EN 
ROUTE  TO  PLUTO  by  Wallace  West,  which  contains  the  san>e 
characters  in  c somewhat  different  setting.  O.K.  Cliff? 

Now  let's  telk  your  mag.  It's  improving.  As  I gaze 

over  my  beck  nui^ers,  I find  that  It  is  at  least  90%  better 
than  in  I939*f0*41  (I  forgot  to  put  "now"  in  there,  see  to  it. 
willya?).  I won't  comment  on  tha  stories  in  the  Juns  ish  or 
TW§,  except  to  say  that  they  were  up  to  par.  Best  story  yoo 
or  your  companion  mag  SS  have  published  to  date  it 
AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke  in  the 
Nov.,  '48,  (sh  of  SS.  More,  pleasel 

I notice  in  the  June.  '50,  TWS  that  a letter  by  J.  W.  Jakes 
names  names,  both  of  another  Ed  and  another  mag,  a dbtn* 
petitor.  Can  it  be  that  at  last  the  insurmountable  barrier  is 
down?  Most  of  us  (fans)  read  ail  the  mags  published  end 
moan  because  they  ere  so  few,  so  1 can't  see  where  using 
the  names  of  other  mags  end/or  editors  hurts  ^e  sale  of  any 
one  mag.  How  about  it,  has  the  millennium  arrived  at  last?'— 
R.O.  No.  I,  Zelienople.  Pa. 

No — no  millennium,  Robert,  wethinks 
(usthinks?  NO!).  It  just  happened  we 
thought  Brother  Jakes’  letter  was 
strengthened  by  the  inclusion  of  those  un- 
nameable  things  you  mention  above.  By  the 
way,  bub,  now  that  you’ve  broken  the  pro- 
verbial crystal  surface,  how  about  contin- 
uing with  further  epistles  ? 

It’s  a curious  thing  about  so-called  “reg- 
ular" competitors  to  this  column.  They  do 
have  a turnover,  averaging  about  two  years 
of  contributions  apiece.  But  there  are  al- 
ways eager  neophytes  waiting  in  line  to 
crash  the  sacred  (??)  precincts.  There’s 
about  as  much  fun  in  watching  the  new 
develop  as  there  is  sadness  in  seeing  tried 
and/or  true  drift  away. 


WEIRD  MALE 
by  Dave  Hammond 

Dear  Editor:  Was  t surprised!  I picked  up  the  latest  itsuo 
of  Thrilling  Wonder  Stories  and,  being  first  a fen.  searched 
through  the  letter  section  searching  for  tha  letter  ot  a certain 
Paul  Geniev,  who,  os  I learned  in  another  magazine,  was 
going  to  say  something  about  me.  I repeat— was  1 surprisedl 

Why?  There  was  a letter  by  me  in  ffie  aforementionedl 
I got  nearly  ai  much  kick  out  of  soelng  that  at  I did  in 
sa«ng  my  first  letter  ISS  January.  1950)  printedi 

I fear  next  month— volume  I,  Number  I of  INCUBUS  wtff 
probably  be  reviewed  in  SSI 

Golly  gee  vriiizl  (To  be  absolutely  tritel)  Do  I get  the 
weird  mail!  I do  not  mean,  of  course,  my  friends  but  some 
of  the  other  stuff!  All  sorts  of  offers— that's  it— everybody 
wants  to  sell  yoe  something. 

Authors  I'd  like  to  see  more  of  in  SS  B TWS:  Edmond 
Hamilton  and/or  his  wife.  Leigh  Brackett,  Joe  Gibson.  John 
MacDonald.  Raymond  F.  Jones,  Arthur  C.  Clarke  and  a few 
others. 

Anot^r  thing — I wish  you  would  use  new  eefhors  whenever 
thw  write  stories  that  are  good  enough. 

"The  Reversed  Man"  was  certamly  not  original.  Only  Cterke's 
writing  made  reading  it  worth  the  effort. 

Right  now,  it  hasn't  happened  yet  but  1 expect  that  soon 
I'll  be  seeing  fan  letters  published  and  editors  writing  edi* 
toriaH  about  Edgar  Rke  Burroughs.  Some  fans,  notably  John 
(^Ison  of  Minneapolis,  have  got  the  idea  that  I believe  every 
book  ERB  ever  wrote  is  classic.  This  is  wrong— Burroughs  hes 
written  loesy  books — and  he  has  written  MAGNIFICENT  books. 

I suspect  that  a percentage  of  the  Burroughs  haters  (there 


154 


you  kftow — w«irds  like  Jenret^a  And  GHton|  detect 
Burroughs,  because  they  first  reed  his  poorest  novels.  It  it 
my  opinion  that  if  a person  new  to  Burrouohs  first  read  tech 
clastici  as  "The  Land  that  Time  Forgot."  "The  War  Chief," 
"At  the  Earth**  Core,"  "A  Princes*  of  Mars/*  "The  Chessmen 
of  Mars,"  "The  Eternal  Lover,"  "Tanan  the  Terrible,"  "Tartan 
at  the  Earth's  Core"  and  others  he  would  be  as  loyal  a 
Burroughs  fan  as  I am. 

Of  course,  if  your  first  experiences  with  Burroughs  are 
through  the  movies  or  comics  (neither  of  which  Burroughs 
wrote  incidentally)  I can  sympathize  with  fovi.  Also  books 
such  as  "Swords  or  Mars,"  '^Tartan  and  the  Forbidden  City," 
"Tartan  and  the  Leopard  Men,”  "Synthetic  Men  of  Mars," 
"John  Carter  and  the  Giant  of  Mars*'  (a  Mars  story  that  hat 
never  appeared  in  book  form),  "Escape  on  Venus,"  "PellucI* 
dar"  and  "Liana  of  Gathol*'  (Book  One  of  the  latter  is, 
however  VERY  good)  were  not  among  the  best  of  ERB’s  works. 

THUS — I am  a Burroughs  fan  because  of  those  classics  that 
he  did  write — not  for  every  one  he  wrote  about  anything. 

Does  anybody  understand  my  point  of  view?-~>-606  Oak  Street, 
Runnemede.  New  Jersey. 

Somehow  we  don’t  see  much  to  comment 
on  in  the  above.  In  fact  this  Hammond  is 
a pretty  amiable  character,  n’«sf-ce  past 

IRREVOCABLY 
by  Morton  D.  Poley 

Dear  Editor:  Ghu's  shmoos.  I'm  back  againl  Yessir.  Doubt* 
lenfy  and  irrevocably  I have  once  more  invaded  the  sacred 
confines  of  TRS  with  a monstrous  missive!  The  June  issue  of 
TWS  is  undoubtedly  above  average.  Here**  how  I rate  the 
stories: 

1—  SUNDAY  IS  THREE  THOUSAND  YEARS  (,MILES)  AWAY 

The  printers  seem  to  have  been  somewhat  in  doubt  as  to 

the  title  of  this  one.  Miles  or  years,  tho,  it  was  good.  Ray* 
n>ond  Jones  has  greatly  improved  as  a writer. 

2—  THE  REVERSED  MAN 

This  is  the  kind  of  a story  that  I'd  classify  as  definitely 
"antholigizable.**  Let’s  have  more  by  Clarkel 

3—  NO  HIDING  PLACE 

4— COFFINS  TO  MARS 

Both  good  novelets.  Raymond  Z.  Gaflun  is  one  of  the  few 
old'time  writers  who  have  kept  up  with  passing  years.  Cart* 
mill’s  yam  was  well-written,  but  somewhat  corny. 

5— THE  PILLOWS 

Margaret  St.  Clair's  weird  s-f  is  tops.  While  not  up  to 
THE, GARDENER.  THE  PILLOWS  was  definitely  suspenseful 
and  intriguing. 

6— THE  STRANGEST  BEDFELLOWS 

I stifl  refuse  to  believe  that  Morrison  is  Morrison.  Maybe 
he's  Cartmill  or  perhaps  Merwin  or  Sprague. 

7—  PRECOGNITION 

Keep  the  short-shorts  coming!  While  they  can't  rank  with 
the  longer  stories  they  definitely  are  interesting.  Reynolds 
promises  to  blossom  into  a Bradbury  of  tomorrow. 

Your  editorial  on  the  H-bomb  was  very  thought-provoking. 
I am  afraid  that  Man's  science  is  maturing  far  faster  than 
Man  himself  and,  like  Frankenstein  or  Rossum's  robots,  will 
destroy  it*  creator.  Now  that  the  balance  between  "bullets 
and  armor"  (see  Verne's  TRIP  TO  THE  MOON)  has  been 
totally  destroyed  it  seems  that  homo  saps  will  fall  victim 
to  his  own  intellect. 

The  current  crop  of  letters  isn't  very  controver^al.  It  seems 
to  me  that  every  time  we  hit  a hot  two-sided  situation  you 
steer  us  away  from  it.  1 don't  understand  this. 

Book  reviews  are  good — the  FRYING  PAN  always  laugh- 
provoking.  By  the  way,  you'll  find  my  own  little  piece  of 
trash  in  this  envelope,  for  frying  in  TFP.  BEELZEBUB  rantings 
it  now  a one-sheeter  and  free  but  I hope  to  pad  it  into  a 
middle-sized  hunk  of  fannish  obnoxiousity  (there  is  such  a 
word?). — M55  Townsend  Avenue.  New  York  52.  New  York. 

It’3  obnoxiousness,  Morton — and  while 
William  Morrison’s  actual  name  is  Joseph 
Samachson  he  has  not,  as  far  as  we  know, 
written  under  any  but  his  WM  nom  de 
plume. 

ONE  ISSUE  OLD— BUT  GOOD 
by  B.  Laurifx  Hanson 

Skaldic  Oratorio  of  a Scandinavian  Hotshot 
(From  Duluth)  on  reading  the  April  TWS 

Dear  Ed,  as  you  can  plainly  see, 

A poet  of  a high  degree 

Has  written  lines,  to  bring  you  fame, 

And  save  Space  Opera  from  shame. 

Ye  poet  ekeirpeneth  his  pen,  likewise  hM  trmstf  bpeod- 
knife. 


The  psychos  of  pfychology 
And  every  phony  ology. 

Hove  roboed  us  now  of  fair  space's  gleams 
And  substituted  nut  house  dreams. 

Chorns:  Slightty  of^sta^  bnrning  eon  Vogt  m oth 

From  Booby  Hatch 
Comes  many  a batch 
Of  stfans  who  hate  science. 

CARNIVAL  OF  MADNESS 
Ray  Bradbury  has  said  his  bit 
From  me  he  gets  no,  thanks  for  it. 

In  fact,  the  pestilentlous  hound 
Should  be  laid  six  feet  under  ground. 

Ttvo  small  boys  with  pea~shooters  catch  Bradbpry  in  the 
act  of  reachitig  for  a ctgaeette  butt. 

PLANET  OF  SMALL  MEN 
But  Murray  Leinster,  Ulsterman, 

Has  rescued  ui  from  Orson's  ban. 

No  reveries  of  human  guilt. 

He  fixes  Alien  to  the  hilt. 

This  is  true  stf — take  It  from  me— 

I've  read  tho  stuff  since  thirty-three. 

Leinster^  crowned  with  rottfon  leaves,  is  escorted  m by 
thirty  Viktngs  and  congratulated  by  the  residents  of  Iceland. 

THE  TIME  CAVE 

Friend  Sheldon?  he's  no  friend  of  mine. 

In  fact,  he  don't  deserve  a line. 

Sheldon  is  ignominiously  yanked  of  stage  by  th«  hook, 

JOURNEY  FOR  SEVEN 
Now  good  MacDonald,  honest  Scot, 

Deserves  my  praises,  here's  a lot. 

Of  seven,  he  picked  three  bad  eggs. 

Na'theless  we'll  forgive  Ihe  yeggs. 

And  concentrate  upon  the  story 
Which  should  him  elevate  to  glory. 

And  also  checks,  multiferous 
If  not,  give  ed  a hearty  cuss. 

Rattle  of  drums.  Tnumphat  procession  of  MacDonald 
borne  on  the  shoulders  of  twenty  fans  who  remember  when 
stf  was  stf.  Gets  handshake  from  King  of  Sweden. 

THERE  SHALL  BE  NO  DARKNESS 
And  ignorance  is  BHsh.  I fear. 

Let's  have  no  more  wolfbane  this  year. 

Exit  Blish  chased  by  a runt  Chihuahua. 

NOCTURNE 

To  Wallace  West,  a rose  I fling, 

The  man  who  made  the  flowers  to  sing. 

Space  opera  at  Its  very  best. 

His  yarn  will  pass  in  any  test. 

Twenty-one  gun  solute  as  West  is  driven  in  coach  and 
four  by  all  stf  editors  to  be  decorated  by  King  of  Norway. 

THE  BORGHESE  TRANSPARENCY 
Of  Carter  Sprague  I say  no  more 
Than,  "Show  the  culprit  to  the  doorl" 

Three  Muses  weeping  over  xoasted  talent. 

LIHLE  JOE 

Now  Cartmill.  there's  the  man  for  me. 

A genyouwine  space,  pperee 
In  aH  its  ancient  pristine  glory. 

Can  any  write  a better  story? 

I doubt  it,  and  to  prove  my  point 
I'll  toss  caviller  from  the  iointi 
■ BrynhUd  givet  Crntmitl  a kits. 

L' ENVOI 

Dear  Ed,  I've  dealt  thus  generously. 

Can  you  be  cruel,  do  less  for,  me? 

Then  print  this  sheet  of  Skaldic  glory 
I ask  no  pay.  That's  all,  begorree. 

Poet  takn^  careful  aim  rmth  his  trusty  sis  gnn  Pn  case 
the  Envoi  is  not  oranted. 

Seriously,  the  only  story  I didn't  like  was  "The  Time  Cave," 
but  I am  getting  Hreo  of  all  these  sneers  about  "Space 
Opera."  It  is  still  the  best  in  Science  Fictton.— Lweme, 
North  Dakota. 

We’re  getting  tired  and  so  are  you 
Let’s  call  this  off  and  say,  "We’re  through!" 
But  if  your  TWS  you’ve  pondered 
Then  urrite  us  at  Suite  HOO, 
to  East  iOth,  New  York  16 
And  get  the  bile  from  out  your  spleen. 
You’ll  surely  find  it  tres  small  loss 
With  which  we’ll  now  say,  "Adios." 

—THE  EDITOR 


15S 


SCIENCE 

FICTION 

BOOK  REVIEW 


THE  INCOMPLETE  ENCHANTER  by  Flefcher  Pra« 
& L.  Sprague  de  Camp,  Hie  Prime  Press.  Philadelphia 
U2.50). 

This  is  a fine  example  of  the  type  of  rol- 
licking time-travel  tale  into  legend  and  past 
fantasia  in  which  these  two  authors  used  to 
specialize  so  happily.  It  revolves  about  one 
Harold  Shea,  an  institutional  psychologist 
who  gets  vicarious  thrills  out  of  dressing 
up  heroically  in  his  spare  time — but  whose 
life  has  been  heretofore  confined  to  prosaic 
academic  pursuits. 

Disliking  acutely  a less  introverted  col- 
league, to  say  nothing  of  the  somewhat 
overpowering  attentions  of  the  buxom  Ger- 
trude, a laboratory  assistant  who  has  sub- 
limated her  maternal  instincts  where  Har- 
old is  concerned  into  something  very  differ- 
ent, our  hero  takes  flight  via  an  unfinished 
experiment  of  Dr.  Chalmers,  his  boss,  into 
the  land  of  the  Norse  gods. 

Although  he  has  the  foresight  to  provide 
himself  with  enough  equipment  for  a scout- 
master, Harold  soon  finds  that  in  this 
strange  world  his  weapons  are  utterly  use- 
less and,  facing  the  deadline  of  the  Twi- 
light of  the  Gods,  he  is  forced  to  develop 
some  hitherto  only  dreamed-of  resources  in 
himself. 

He  manages — in  hairbreadth  and  hilari- 
o)is  fashion,  ultimately  emerging  smack 
into  the  arms  of  Gertrude.  In  his  second 
flight  he  takes  bis  boss  with  him  to  the  land 
of  Spencerian  magic,  where  they  both  get 
involved  in  a zany  web  of  runic  intrigue, 
ultimately  being  inducted  into  a wizard’s 
guild. 

On  this  occasion  Harold  works  out  a far 
more  satisfactory  solution  before  return- 
ing to  his  home  age  and  Earth.  All  in  all  we 
enjoyed  THE  INCOMPLETE  ENCHANT- 
ER about  as  much  as  any  fantasy  of  its 
genre.  It’s  darn  good  fun  all  the  way — and 
almost  impossible  to  lay  down  once  begun. 

FLIGHT  INTO  SPACE,  an  anthology  of  tpaco  fraval 
compiled  by  Donald  A,  Woltheim,  Frederick  Fell, 
New  York  ($2.75). 

Editor  Wolllieim  has  come  up  witti  a 


neat  device  in  this  compilation,  opening 
with  a tale  of  Sol  (SUNWARD  by  Stanton 
A.  Coblentz)  and  continuing  with  a story 
of  each  of  the  planets  (including  Earth) 
and  the  Asteroids  (AJAX  OF  AJAX  by 
Martin  Pearson),  all  the  way  out  to  Pluto 
(THE  RAPE  OF  THE  SOLAR  SYSTEM 
by  Leslie  F.  Stone) . 

All  in  all  he  has  turned  the  trick  neatly 
enough,  with  PARASITE  PLANET  by  the 
late  Stanley  G.  Weinbaum,  THE  SEEKERS 
by  Robert  Moore  Williams  and  RED 
STORM  ON  JUPITER  by  Frank  Belknap 


Long  heading  the  parade  in  our  more  or 
less  humble  opinion. 

If  you  are  a collector  of  stf  anthologies, 
this  one  certainly  belongs  on  your  ever- 
expanding  bookshelf. 

THREE  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE  by  Mary  Griffith. 
The  Prime  Press,  Philadelphia  (no  price  listed). 

A limited  edition  of  one  of  the  earlier 
Utopia  stories  (first  published  in  Philadel- 
phia, 1836),  which  is  more  of  a curiosity 
than  an  accurate  prophecy.  The  author’s 
preoccupation  with  rights  for  women  and 
her  utter  inability  to  foresee  the  immedi- 
ate results  of  the  industrial  age  upon  which 
her  v7orld  had  already  embarked  make 
more  for  quaintness  than  reader  amaze- 
ment. 

However,  the  volume  is  interesting  as  an 
expression  of  the  dreams  of  its  period  and 
the  introduction,  by  Nelson  F.  Adkins,  is  a 
first-class  little  essay  in  its  own  right. 
Thoughtful,  and  written  with  a deadly  seri- 
ousness which  provides  its  own  share  of 
chuckles. 

—THE  EDITOR 


166 


STF  MOVIE  REVIEW 


DESTINATION  MOON,  Georarc  Pal  ProduetionB,  Inc. 
Screenplay  by  Rip  Van  RonkeU  Robert  A.  Heinlein  and 
James  O'Hanlon.  Prom  a novel  by  Mr.  Heinlein.  Photo* 
graphed  in  Technicolor  by  Lionel  Linden.  ASC.  Cartoon 
sequence.  Walter  Lantz.  Technical  advisor,  Chesley 
Uonestell.  Music  by  Leith  Stevens.  An  Eagle  Lion  Films 
release.  Directed  by  Irving  Pichel. 

Cost 

Barnes  John  Archer 

Cargraves  Warner  Anderson 

General  Thayer  Torn  Powers 

Sweeney  .Dick  Wesson 

Mrs.  Cargraves  Erin  O'Brien  Moore 

IN  Destination  Moon,  Messers  Pal,  Pichel 
and  Linden,  abetted  by  those  two 
science  fiction  stalwarts,  Robert  A.  Heinlein 
and  Chesley  Bonestell,  and  a cast  of  fine  if 
non-ateliar  players,  have  made  what  is  un- 
questionably the  finest  venture  into  stf  the 
talking  screen  has  yet  achieved. 

The  scenes  in  Tydio’s  crater  on  the  Moon 
are  probably  the  high  point  of  the  produc- 
tion from  a pure  fan  point  of  view — but 
this  is  a lot  more  than  a mere  masterpiece 
of  trick  photography.  In  fact  the  photo- 
graphy and  sets  are  so  good  they  register 
as  reality  rather  than  tricks  and  are  ac- 
cepted by  the  audience  as  incredible  and 
utterly  gripping  reality. 

The  story  is  simple  and  its  simplicity  is 
its  chief  virtue.  It  is  the  tale  of  a small 
group  of  determined  Americans  to  get  to 
the  Moon  before  anyone  else,  despite  preju- 
diced and  ignorant  opposition  at  home  and 
the  skilled  sabotage  and  propaganda  of 
alien  nations. 

Ultimately  the  prime  movers  in  the  plan, 
hard-bitten  General  Thayer,  dynamic  but 
human  industrialist  Jim  Barnes,  bril- 
liant scientist  Dr.  Cargraves,  along  with 
last-minute-substitute  radioman  Sweeney, 
take  off  in  place  of  a crew  that  lacks  train- 
ing and  undertake  the  expedition  them- 
selves. 

They  meet  with  near  disaster  on  the  way 
out,  all  but  crash  when  they  land  in  Tycho 
and  come  close  to  being  stuck  on  the  Moon 
through  an  over-use  of  fuel — which  makes 
the  return  trip  a touch-and-go  business. 

But  they  manage — and  more  important 
they  manage  like  real  people  faced  with 
real  problems.  This,  coupled  with  the  reality 
of  the  settings  and  dialogue,  gives  the  pic- 
ture all  the  impact  of  a documentary  film. 

Destination  Moon  is  one  film  that  doesn’t 
need  stars.  The  story,  the  settings,  the 
actors  are  its  solid  core — and  the  stars  are 
in  the  heavens  instead  of  in  the  space  suits. 
All  in  all  it  is  a tremendous  milestone  in 
bringing  real  science  fiction  to  the  screen. 
This  is  one  you  can’t  afford  to  miss! 


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In  the  second  anniversary  issue  of 
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by  Robert  Bloch 

(The  following  oath  is  recommended  to  be  ad- 
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I,  John  Doe,  being  of  unsound  mind  and  body 
and  otherwise  qu^ified  as  a potential  writer  of 
fantastic  fiction,  do  hereby  resolve  to  adhere 
to  the  following  restrictions  in  the  practice  of 
my  profession,  viz,  namely  and  also  to  wit — 

1.  Never  to  write  a story  about  a mad  doctor, 
a mad  scientist  or  a mad  professor. 

2.  Or  even  a sane  one  if  that  can  be  avoided. 

3.  Or,  if  it  can’t,  never  to  give  one  of  the  above 

characters  a beautiful  daughter.  ' 


158 


1.  Never  to  write  a story  about  a so-called 
“giant  brain.” 

5.  At  least,  no  more  than  6 feet  in  diameter. 

6.  Never  to  write  a story  about  a comical 
leprechaun. 

7.  Or  a serious  leprechaun. 

8.  Or  any  lousy  leprechaun. 

9.  Never  to  write  a story  about  a beautiful 
native  girl  named  Moola,  who  turns  into  a 
leopard,  a black  panther,  a cobra,  a tigress, 
a vampire  bat,  a cat  or  an  aardvark. 

10.  Never  to  write  a story  about  a timid,  weak, 
poor  little  clerk  who  is  suddenly  gifted 
with  supernatural  powers  and  gets  mixed 
up  with  a “hardboiled  city  editor”  when  he 
tries  to  convince  him  that  he  can  foretell 
the  winner  of  the  Kentucky  Derby  or  the 
Girls'  Intercity  Basketball  Tournament. 

11.  I further  resolve  not  to  write  stories  about 
dinosaur  eggs  that  hatch. 

12.  Or  brontosaurus,  pterodactyl,  allosaurus, 
diplocodus,  triceratops,  stegathorus  or  ty- 
rannosaurus eggs  that  hatch. 

13.  Or  that  don’t  hatch,  for  that  matter. 

14.  I will  not  write  stories  about  gallant  wipers, 
oilmen,  engineers,  pilots,  navigators,  astro- 
gators  or  just  plain  stowaways  on  space- 
ships who  manage  to  improvise  some  last- 
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16. 


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18. 


19. 


20. 


21. 


22. 


23. 


24. 


25. 

26. 
27. 


crashing  and  then  pay  for  their  gallantly 
heroic  effort  with  their  lives  as  a result  of 
being  exposed,  during  this  ordeal,  to  the 
deadly  fumes  or  rays  of  the  Sterno  which 
propels  the  vessel  around. 

I will  also  try  to  avoid  writing  sentences 
like  the  above,  particularly  in  the  ftopt  ^ 
parts  of  stories. 

I will  not  write  stories  about  Martians  who 
come  to  Earth  and  cannot  get  anyone  to 
believe  they  are  from  Mars. 

I will  not  write  stories  about  Earthmen  who 
go  to  Mars  and  cannot  get  anyone  to  be- 
lieve they  are  from  Earth. 

I will  not  write  stories  about  automobiles, 
airplanes,  tractors  or  automatic-milking- 
machines  that  come  to  life. 

I shall  try  to  avoid  tales  wherein  people  ! 
are  drawn  into  or  out  of  mirrors,  oil  paint-  | 
ings,  photographs  or  drawings  on  privy  ,1 
walls. 

I will  do  my  best  not  to  write  about  king- 
doms under  the  sea  or  kingdoms  inside 
volcanoes  or  kingdoms  inside  clouds  or 
kingdoms  on  the  dark  side  of  the  Moon,  etc. 

And  if  I must  use  such  themes  I will  try 
to  change  the  kingdoms  into  republics, 
democracies  or  Consumer  Co-operatives 
just  in  the  interest  of  variety. 

I shall  endeavor  to  avoid  High  Priests 
whenever  possible — Including  the  ecclesias- 
tical dignitaries  of  Atlantis,  Mu,  Lemuria 
and  all  points  west.  Ditto  for  priestesses. 

I leave  the  problem  of  “uranium  piles”  to 
my  physician. 

I will  not  write  stories  about  mankind’s 
struggle  to  rebuild  civilization  after  the 
destruction  of  total  atomic  warfare,  nor 
about  mankind’s  struggle  to  oust  alien  con- 
querors after  interplanetary  warfare,  nor 
about  mankind’s  struggle  to  repel  giant  in- 
sects, giant  reptiles,  giant  plants,  giant 
robots  or  giant  midgets. 

While  I’m  at  it  I’ll  avoid  all  insect,  reptile, 
plant  and  robot  menaces,  including  the  in- 
verted device  of  making  one  of  the  insects, 
reptiles,  plants  or  robots  a friendly  char- 
acter. Anybody  who  wants  to  make  friends 
with  a giant  reptile  has  my  permission  to 
do  so — but  not  for  me,  thanks — at  least  not 
while  sober. 

I shall  avoid  heroes  who  will  do  anything  on 
any  planet  to  anybody  for  any  length  of 
time  in  order  to  get  enough  money  to  buy 
drinks. 

I will  not  write  stories  about  young  men 
who  fall  in  love  with  vampires  and  drive 
stakes  through  their  hearts  to  give  them 
"peace.” 

Or  about  young  men  who  fall  in  lovo  with 
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28.  Or  about  small  boys  who  can  see  spirits, 
werewolves,  Elementals,  fairies  or  Martians 
while  their  parents  scoff. 

29.  I will  eschew  the  tale  of  the  two  lovers  who 
are  reincarnated  throughout  history  and  get 
together  somehow  during  World  War  II 
in  order  to  die  heroically  and  “be  together 
now  until  the  end  of  time.” 

36.  I refuse  to  write  the  story  about  the  trans- 
planted brains,  hands,  eyes  or  small  in- 
testines. 

■31.  Or  large  intestines. 

32.  I will  not  write  the  story  about  the  civiliza- 
tion where  everybody  thinks  on  at  least 
three  levels  and  insists  on  talking  about  it. 

33.  Or  not  talking  about  it. 

34.  It  is  understood,  however,  that  I will  be 
allowed  to  disregard  any  or  all  of  the  above 
restrictions  if  I get  a chance  to  write  one 
of  the  above  stories  for  money.  After  all, 
a fantasy-writer  has  to  eat.  Although  in 
view  of  the  above  plots  one  sometimes 
wonders.  . . . 

Our  sole  editorial  addendum  to  the 
above  credo  is  a sub  rosa  suggestion  that 
all  of  these  restrictions  be  applied  to 
fantasy  or  stf  writers  for  fan  magazines 
— and  since  the  editors  of  fan  magazines 
cannot  pay  for  submitted  material  as  a 
rule,  there  is  no  earthly  or  unearthly 
reason  for  disregarding  them  ever. 

—THE  EDITOR 

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SOMEWHERE  IN  THIS 
HOUSE 

A killer  war  loot*  In 
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and  Vera  knew  it.  It 
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English  Setter  ^'Peg  O'  Pondwood"  and  pet  Persians,  at  Colebrook,  Conn.,  home  of  the  author 
and  archaeologist  Roy  Chapman  Andrews.  {On  table— first  petrified  dinosaur  egg  ever  found.) 


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CHOICE  BLENDED  WHISKEY-86.8  PROOF- 65%  GRAIN  NEUTRAL  SPIRITS  . . . CALVERT  DISTILLERS  CORP.,  N.  Y.  CITY